


Sledgehammers and the Fourth Wall

by dimeliora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:43:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimeliora/pseuds/dimeliora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Winchesters go at the Fourth Wall, they go at it hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dean

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of an argument I once saw in Youtube comments, and one I had in real life.

It's not that Dean's never woken up in a strange place before. That happens a lot. To be honest it happens far more than he cares to admit recently, and that's saying something. Still he has a fairly strong grasp on how that whole thing usually unfolds. Memory of passing out notwithstanding there's always the build-up, and Dean never forgets the beginning of a night with that much lubrication. Hasn't forgotten the build-up to any of those nights, at least not since-  
  
But he's not going there anymore because he promised himself he wouldn't. Some things can't be changed, and once you've gone down certain hallways all you can do is burn the house down and hope it doesn't rebuild itself. At least that's one of the many philosophies he's pulled, whole and shining, out of his ass in the last two months while he and Sam drift further and further apart. All thanks to Sam's inability to let the goddamn house burn down. So whatever has him reclined in an SUV he doesn't recognize with a headache that may land in the record books it's surely Sam's fault. He'll tell Sam that too, as soon as he gets the fur off his tongue and the lingering sensation of nausea out of his gut. He pushes his way up and slams his poor head against the roof of the car before he realizes that his depth perception is all off. _Well fuck_. Isn't that just the kicker? He manages to get the door of the damn thing open and stumbles out into an overcast day in some parking lot. The clear feeling in the air, the sharp underbite of the wind, and the maples changing colors in the distance tell him he's north of the Mason-Dixon line. It's mid-fall here, but he's pretty certain the last place he clearly remembers was Louisiana in August. There's a warehouse in front of him that looks fairly abandoned and that's not a good sign. Was he at a rave?  
  
Fuck that. Dean Winchester has gone to some seedy places, but a rave is beneath even him. Bunch of willowy kids in day-glo paint dropping E and humping each other to bad music. Count him out. So if it wasn't a social event what was it? And where the fuck was he last? He remembers a motel room, one of many that don't really stick out, and an argument with Sam that follows that same pattern. Something about a hunt. A hunt for…  
  
But he can't _remember_. And is that what's happened? Was he injured on a hunt? Maybe hexed, and this is where he woke up? If that's the case than he needs to call Sam immediately because either his little brother has been injured too and is missing, or he's in serious trouble for not making sure Dean got back to the room after it was all done. Honestly he's hoping for the second option even though it's unlikely. He fumbles through his pockets before his fingers skim something smooth and plastic. _Bingo_. Except that's not his phone. Not one of the many pre-pays he's had over the years at all, the company's logo emblazoned on the top of it suggesting that it's part of some responsible person's contractual plan. Dean doesn't do contracts. A side effect of being legally dead.   
  
So without a doubt the warning bells are now going off in his head at an alarming volume, and he uses this to steady his shaking legs as he hits the phone's power button and fiddles with it. There's a password setting, and he can just see Sam figuring out the password without having to try and then gloating. Smug little bastard. He tries random combinations and words for a few minutes and then gives it up and drops the cell back into his pocket before digging more thoroughly in the others. He finds a wallet that definitely doesn't belong to him, keys to the behemoth behind him, and then a scrap of paper with a name and an address on it. That warrants a second look because while it's not Dean's handwriting it is a man's handwriting, but despite being fooled before he’s pretty sure it’s a woman’s name. Briefly he remembers a punch he received years and years ago from a hunter named Sue when he made a Johnny Cash joke. Which should have gone over so much better. He drops the paper in with the phone, and then opens the wallet and before he can get a good look he hears a familiar groan of pain from behind him.   
  
It takes no time at all to circle the Denali and find Sam leaning against it on the ground. His brother looks just as fucked up as he feels, and the icing on the weird shit cake is that there's a beanie on Sam's head. It's not that Sam's never worn one before, but only under extreme circumstances. Dean knows without a shadow of doubt that his little brother fakes not caring about his hair, claims it's indifference that lets him go so long between haircuts, but in reality it is the same vanity Dean applies to his baby. He knows how hard Sam works to trim those little sideburns he's so fond of, and hats like the one on Sam's head undo all his careful work. It's not cold enough for Sam to resort to such an accessory, and that's all the heads-up Dean needs to be completely aware that they are in some fucked up shit.   
  
He thinks through all of this as he leads Sam upright and off the cold metal of the car, checks his pupils for signs of a concussion and pushes his fingers under Sam's jaw to time his pulse. They're familiar with first-aid, hell they've faked being EMTs efficiently more than once, but that doesn't mean there could be something wrong with them that Dean doesn't know how to find. Dad's old manuals covered a lot of situations, but they were sorely lacking in "woke up in a strange parking lot in a different state and season". Sam's hands fumble up to find his, grip for half a second, and then the hazel eyes clear and he pushes Dean away. So they're still fighting.   
  
"Fuck off Dean. I'm fine. Where are we? What hit me?" It's a testament to his superior quality as a brother that he doesn't use this as an excuse to shout at Sam or belittle him. They have time for that later. Also, shouting with a headache is never a good idea.  
  
"North or Northern Midwest. Warehouse parking lot. What's the last thing you remember?"  
  
That gets Sam's attention, and the broad brow furrows as his eyebrows pull together tightly. "Uh. We were in the motel and you were arguing with me about how to go after the troll."  
  
 _The troll_. It's clear in seconds. Dean found the string of grisly deaths in Louisiana, all near a specific bridge, all the corpses crushed as if by a giant. Sam had figured out the troll angle, and there'd been a lot of mockery on Dean's part before he finally got excited about the prospect of something new. As much as he'd longed for cut and dry hauntings in the last few years it had been an adventure to have something new to hunt. The trouble had come when Sam wanted to take a fairy tale approach to troll hunting, and Dean wanted to try out a more brutal attack. He'd been quoting the "Billy Goats Gruff" in a sarcastic tone when the world went dark. He'd smelled something too, something kind of like incense but he wasn't entirely sure.   
  
"Ok. Yeah troll. So how'd we get here?" He looks around and then focuses on Sam as his little brother starts rifling through his pockets. He pulls out a cell phone much like Dean's, a wallet that is much nicer than any Sam has probably ever owned, a pack of licorice, and then a slip of paper. He squints in an offended manner at the candy before opening the paper. It's got the same info Dean's had, but in a different hand. _Clue_.   
  
The rain starts then, and they climb back into the SUV before it soaks them and open their respective wallets. Sam groans thickly and Dean glances over to see the ID in his hand states that he is Jared Padalecki. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. His own wallet informs him cheerily that he's Jensen Ackles, and that's just perfect. They're back in TV land. How he doesn't know because they certainly didn't jump through any random angel's portal this time, but here they are. So now he needs to figure out what the actors were doing when they got slid out of their world or whatever happens to them when the Winchesters take their places. Sam rifles a little deeper and pulls out a picture of himself and Jo, smiling and arm in arm, and the look he sends Dean is borderline panicked. Dean shakes his head once, although what he's negating he's not sure, and then closes his own wallet and starts the car. First things first.  
  
They drive fifteen minutes before they see a city, and the landmarks aren't very helpful. Sam's fiddling with the phone he found, and while Dean pulls over in the parking lot of an A&W Sam makes a noise of victory and then shoots Dean the same look he imagined earlier. Kid's too smart for his own damn good. Once the phone's cracked though they have a wider variety of options in front of them.   
  
Sam plugs the address from the paper scrap into his phone and then turns the GPS on. It tells them they're maybe ten minutes away from their destination, and that they're in Northeast Ohio. Dean gets to be smug at that one, but it's a short-lived victory. He orders a ridiculous amount of food and charges it to Jensen's credit card without cursing a single time. Which is an accomplishment as far as he's concerned. Sam watches him start in on the Papa Burger before biting into his grilled chicken sandwich.  
  
"So do we follow the mysterious lead or just find a way to get the hell out of here?" Sam's face says that A&W doesn't have the best lettuce, and he pulls it off before finishing the sandwich. Dean considers his options as he pops another cheese curd in his mouth.  
  
"Probably our best option is both. The name on the paper might have some answers, or shit just a place to sleep. I feel like I went three rounds with a damn Wendigo." Sam makes a face, either at his choice of analogies or his mouthful of food Dean's not sure, and then shakes his head balefully.  
  
"You think she's gonna let us just stay at her place? What happens when we tell her we're not Jared and Jensen?"  
  
He raises one eyebrow to indicate Sam's mistakes, and the wide eyes narrow before Sam adopts his best bitchface.   
  
"Dean. We're not actors remember? Remember how bad it was last time? What if she knows them really well huh? How are we going to trick her into thinking we're them?" He sounds so fucking condescending Dean kind of wants to dump his drink in Sam's lap, but he holds back on that urge too. Because he's the best big brother in the world, and he needs to be calm to prove that.   
  
"We've pretended to be all kinds of things Sam. Sure, scripts weren't our strong suit, but lying we're damn good at. We got a specialty in that."  
  
Sam doesn't look convinced, but he nods once and then pulls his phone out. "Well let's call her. I doubt they just show up randomly. Right?"  
  
"Right." He's not sure about that though. Guys like Jensen and Jared rarely go on trips together to abandoned warehouses with scraps of paper bearing an old friend's name tucked in their pockets. Still that line that's been between Sam's eyebrows since he woke up has finally disappeared and Dean's not eager to bring it back. He starts the car up even as Sam skips through his phone contacts. Dean's suspicions are put into question when Sam ends up finding one with the girl's name and the right area code attached to it. He calls it on speakerphone, and Dean's delighted when the ringback tone is Bob Seger's "Turn the Page".   
  
The voice that answers is low, borderline sultry, and severely annoyed. Jessica Rabbit pissed off. _"Yeah Jared? How can I help you?"_  
  
Sam waits a second too long, there's a huff from the other end, and then his brother's brain kicks on and he leans towards the phone slightly. "Hey, uh, Jensen and I were just thinking about stopping in."  
  
There's a pause long enough to suggest that this requires thought, which underlines the idea that they are not old friends, and then the voice comes back slightly suspicious. _"Stopping in? Aren't you guys supposed to be visiting family on your break?"_  
  
Sam meets his eyes and Dean shrugs widely. He doesn't know what two actors do on a break. Shit this is the time they'd normally still be filming isn't it? Why are they on a break? "Well we thought you'd be a nicer visit sweetheart." He puts all the charm he has into it, and the result surprises the hell out of him.   
  
_"Ok, listen, we've talked about that. When you're off the clock you're **off the clock** , so drop the voice. You guys are out of luck on dinner. I haven't been grocery shopping in a week." _She sounds off now, kind of confused and a little distant. _"Deadline you know?"_  
  
Sam grabs the phone up and tries to sound sympathetic and understanding. "Yeah of course. We just ate so that's cool."  
  
There's laughter then, husky and honest, and her voice comes back a little warmer. _"Oh yeah? Steak house or pub?"_  
  
"A&W." Sam shoots him a look and Dean gives it right back. Famous people eat at fast food restaurants all the time. He's seen it on those trashy magazines in the gas stations. The ones he certainly does not read no matter what Sam says.   
  
_"Yeah. Sure. Anyway see you guys in…wait where are you?"_  
  
"Not far. See you soon Morgan." The name almost comes out smoothly, but Sam hitches on it for half a second. If she notices though her goodbye doesn't suggest it. When the call is done Sam queues the directions back up and then catches Dean's gaze. "We're not gonnna pull this off Dean. There's no way."  
  
He starts the SUV up and pulls out of the parking lot. "Positive thinking Sammy. It's the only way to go."  
  
  
\------  
  
  
She doesn't live in a town. That's the first indication that this is seriously off. They cross into a village, a tiny main street consisting of old buildings lining one hilly road with an extremely low speed limit. The small businesses give way to a plethora of Victorians and those boxy modern houses favored so often in this part of the nation. A left turn takes them up more hill until they've officially reached what has to be the highest part of the village, and there stands the house the phone insists is their destination. It's set on a broad and sweeping lawn, and the place can't be any newer than the thirties or forties. Built out of cement blocks and sheltered from the road by a plethora of trees it's big enough for a family, but only one car sits in the wrap-around drive-way. There's a pavilion in the back, and an old storage building that has so many cobwebs in the windows it's obviously out of use. The light in the front yard is on, but Dean goes to the back of the house and finds a patio with a heavy looking door set into it. He knocks on the cedar frame and then peeks through the kitchen window. A breakfast nook sits nestled underneath the glass, and the lights in the kitchen show that the table is covered in papers and one beat up old laptop stands guard over all of it. There's music drifting through the whole scene but he can't quite make out what it is from here. He sees a shape in the window, and when the door opens and the light spills in from outside the shape resolves into a woman.   
  
_Way to go Jensen._ She's curvy in the right places, and long red hair is pulled into a sloppy ponytail over a lightly tanned face and dark brown eyes. She studies them both for a second before stepping back and waving them in. He doesn't miss that her hands are small and delicate, or that she smiles tightly with full lips. There's a wedding ring on her finger, and that dims his opinion of her a bit. She's short too, and when Sam steps in he towers over her. She leads them into the kitchen and then sweeps papers up and away from one side of the table so that they can sit without having them in their way.   
  
"You guys want a beer? I have enough of those even if I can't offer you food." Her voice is accentless, the sound of a person who has either been raised in a vacuum or worked very hard to shed what they sounded like before. She opens the fridge and drops two Yuenglings in front of them before crossing to the counters on the opposite side of the room. Dean's already popping the cap off with his ring, and her eyebrow goes up to her hairline before she smiles tightly again. "Hey, I was thinking of having a smoke. I'm gonna get a sweater ok?"  
  
Dean nods once, smile firmly fixed on his face to suggest that this is all something he expected, and definitely not weird at all. She slips out of the kitchen and he stands and looks at the wall over where they were sitting. There are pictures up there, old black and whites of a wedding with a smiling couple. There's another framed photo on the curve of the nook that features a smiling serviceman with a nose like hers but eyes so bright blue they're reminiscent of Castiel. Sam's trying to quietly get his attention, but Dean's more interested in the paperwork.   
  
"Dean she's on to us." His hiss is low, almost inaudible, and Dean shrugs once and glances up at his brother.   
  
"How Sam?" He pitches his response just as low while he rifles through the papers. They're reports on injuries, deep and intricate descriptions of pain levels and healing times. The ones shuffled underneath are specs for military grade weapons. He almost whistles in appreciation, but the sound is stolen from his mouth when Sam makes a choked noise and the distinct thwack of metal connecting with flesh resonates through the room. It takes him a second to realize that the sound and the bright pain in his lower back are connected, and he turns to face his attacker with papers still clutched in his hands. She's standing in the archway behind him, the one that leads to a dining room, and there's a small aluminum bat in her hand.   
  
She points it like a batter signaling his next hit. "Who the fuck are you?"  
  
He'd respond, but honestly there's no breath left in his lungs and he's fairly certain she was one or two pounds of pressure away from putting blood in his urine. He _hates_ pissing blood. Sam's got it though, recognizes how bad off he is and stands one hand moving reflexively for a knife he realizes he doesn't have. She jerks the bat in his direction when Sam starts speaking. "Hey. Hey now it's ok. We're not going to hurt you."  
  
Her eyes narrow down to dark points as she jerks the bat back at Dean. It's unwarranted though because he's just grabbing the table to make sure he stays steady. She moves slightly and gives herself away. This isn't something she's done before, because she's exposing too much of her side to Sam in an attempt to cover Dean. She's isolated him as the less dangerous one. An interesting choice since Sam is so much bigger, but not completely out of bounds. On the other hand it's a _huge_ mistake because Sam is often almost as dangerous as Dean, and he's already shooting Dean the look to distract her.   
  
"You're goddamn right you're not gonna hurt me. Now tell me who you are." Her hand is shaking now, and Dean almost feels for her. After all, however it is she's figured out that they're not who they're pretending to be she's just a civilian being faced with two strange, muscular men in her home pretending to be her whatever they are.   
  
"Ok, hey, look." He's wheezing but that's good because her hand lowers just a little. "This is a misunderstanding."  
  
He's pretty sure she's going to laugh, or make a sarcastic comment, but Sam cuts that off. Grabs her arm to stop the bat and then grabs her other hand when she swings back. He slides his hand up to pinch the nerve cluster in her shoulder, and she releases the bat with a clatter onto the floor. Sam's trying to hold her tight, but she's thrashing and her eyes have gone wild. She bucks her head back, collides with his nose, and then Sam jerks and hits her knee. It's like the magic off-button, because she stops fighting and there's an agonized noise from the back of her throat before she goes limp.   
  
Dean watches Sam's eyes go wide with guilt, and he lets go of her as she stumbles down and grabs at the knee. It wasn't a hard enough hit to explain that sort of reaction, but her face has gone totally white and she's gasping as she holds onto it. There's the sound of heavy breathing from her, wheezing from Dean, and Sam's guilty silence before they both start talking at the same time.   
  
"Jesus I'm sorry-"  
  
"Fuck that hurts-"  
  
Sam's grabbing her then and lifting her as carefully as he can before leading her down onto the nook's bench. Dean would think it's kind of cute of him, but he has to shove Dean to do it and there's a flare of pain in his lower back reminding him that this whole thing has gone too far sideways for them to even begin to salvage it.   
  
"Ok, listen we're-" Her hand rises up and stops him mid-sentence. Her head is down, and when she finally looks up her pupils are blown wide with adrenaline and pain.   
  
"Identity second. Go through that archway and take the first door on the left. Cabinets above the toilet. Vicodin and the brace. Fast please."  
  
Sam's off like a shot, and when he comes back she dry swallows two of the painkillers before gesturing for him to stand next to her. At this point Dean's feeling about as useful as a dull knife. He kneads his lower back while Sam holds out one arm and she grips his forearm and pulls herself up. She glances once Dean's way, up at Sam, and then uses her free hand to undo the button and fly on her jeans and drop them. Dean gets to appreciate the long legs, muscles indicative of an experienced runner, before he sees the inflamed scar on her kneecap. He winces once in sympathy, and when Sam gets over his prudishness and looks down he hisses before helping her back onto the bench to get the brace on. She's got her jaw clenched tight as Sam maneuvers it carefully, and then when it's on he helps her put her jeans back in place.   
  
"Ice pack in the freezer. I need a smoke." She pushes her way up as Sam digs in the freezer, and halfway through the action he stops and gives Dean his patented _what the hell am I doing look_ , before getting the damn thing and following her. Dean limps along behind, remembering at the last second to grab the beers. Because that may be important. He nudges her hand with his, and brown eyes startle before she grips the bottle and mutters a thanks.   
  
There are four patio chairs set up, and Sam finds a stool under the workbench behind the one she collapses into and moves it so she can prop her leg up. After the icepack is placed and they've both grabbed one of the spots to either side of her a silence descends and Dean's pretty sure this is one of the most awkward moments of his life. No more awkward than that morning a few months ago, but that's a very high bar and….and he's _not_ going there anymore. Instead he focuses on watching her. She pulls a pack of Marlboro Reds from her pocket and lights one before using her fingers to rub the flesh above and below the brace. Her eyes stay on the ground. Sam's watching her with guilt still evident on his face, and Dean rubs the back of his neck before trying to dispel the mood.   
  
"You got quite a swing with that thing." Her hands jerk but she doesn't look up.   
  
"My husband insisted we keep it when I told him no guns. Home protection." Her fingers keep moving as she inhales through her nose. "Maybe I should have practiced more."  
  
He catches Sam's eyes and lifts his eyebrows. She's definitely married and she doesn’t _look_ the cheating type. What the fuck were the two actors doing here?   
  
"Where is your husband?" Sam's voice is soft and soothing, and where usually people melt at it she looks up suspiciously and then pulls the cigarette from her mouth and taps the ashes off the end.   
  
"Who the hell are you guys? You're not crazy look-a-likes. Nobody's that good." Dean can see the way her fingers are shaking with the cigarette, but she gulps her beer and leans back as if she's totally at ease with them.   
  
Sam looks at him again, and they have a silent argument about what to say and who to say it. It's their way, and she watches it without comment for several seconds before tapping her cigarette again and looking away. The husband is an important issue. He may not have much problem with her spending time with the actors but he's certainly not going to be happy if he figures out what she might have been doing, and the suggestion here is that he's a bit more combat oriented than her. Dean takes over as Sam glares at him to be good.   
  
"Let's do this in turns ok? We ask a question, you ask a question, and everybody gets answers. We'll start. You recognize these?" He digs in his pockets, winces when her hand tightens on the beer bottle, and retrieves the two scraps of paper. She looks them over for a full minute in the bright patio light before looking up.   
  
"Jensen and Jared wrote these." Her face is full of questions, and he watches her sort through them. "They gave you my address. Who are you?"  
  
"Sam and Dean Winchester." Sam's face is tight, expectant, and she looks at him blankly before laughing and taking another gulp of her beer.   
  
"No really. I thought we were going to be honest." Her face says she's amused, but her body is tight.   
  
"We are." Dean watched her throat work, and leaned forward cautiously sipping from his own beer. "Where's your husband?" It's not meant to sound so predatory, but if the guy is gonna show up with a gun he never told his wife about Dean would like to be ready for it. Her eyes slide away and then land on something in the darkness of the yard.   
  
"Down the street with my uncle. What do you two want?" Her hand is moving rhythmically on the bottle as if she can find just the right grip to use it to defend herself. She keeps her head rested though, leaning against the back of the chair, and he knows why. Some people, no matter how much experience, can't move for the first half hour after taking opiates. Nausea is a pretty common side effect.   
  
Sam's leaning forward now, hands rubbing in between his knees as he looks for just the right phrase to put her at ease. "We have to figure out how we got here so we can get back. You watch the show right?"  
  
Her eyes moved his way for half a second and then fixed back on the dark yard. "Yeah. I watch the show. You guys jump through another angel portal?" She doesn't sound serious so much as sardonic, and Dean's at his limit. He has to take this slow though because she's not gonna just believe them. That would make her crazy.   
  
"You watch the show but you don't believe. Ok. What will prove it to you?" Morgan's lips pursed, and then she put the bottle down and crushed her cigarette out.   
  
"If there was a way to assure me that you were two fictional characters who stepped out of a television show and received my address from the actors that play you I'd offer it. Honestly though I can't think of a single thing that would logically get that job done. In the meantime let's pretend you're telling the truth and go off of that. What do you remember?" She drained the last of her bottle and dropped it onto the glass table beside her before rubbing at her eyes.   
  
Sam raised an eyebrow at him and then took a sip of his own beer. "Uh. We were on a hunt in Louisiana. Troll. We were arguing about how to handle it and then we woke up outside that SUV at a warehouse about twenty or thirty minutes from here. With those scraps of paper and not much else. That's about it."  
  
"There was a smell." Sam's look was incredulous and Morgan opened her eyes and focused on him. "Kinda like burning grass but harsher? I didn't recognize it. What happened to your knee?" It's not necessarily relevant to their discussion, but if they're gonna keep up this series of turns then they may as well take them. The scars were pretty distinct, and it's hard to imagine a situation in which someone her age needed serious knee surgery.  
  
Morgan's eyes diverted again, fingers tapping rapidly on the arm of her chair. "Attack. It got smashed, and they did anthroplasty. I'm still in the one year recovery time technically. So you smelled burning grass, and then you woke up here. You think it was a spell?"   
  
Sam got up, disappeared for a few seconds, and then came back with more beer. He handed her one before he gave a new one to Dean. "Had to be. The question is who did it and why. Were Jensen or Jared practitioners?"  
  
Her laugh was startled and open, and then she put two fingers to her temple and turned a little green before sipping her beer. "No. Not even a little bit. They got enough of that nonsense from the show, and the fans who couldn't tell the difference. This is ridiculous." She dropped the beer on the table and rubbed at her eyes again. "I can't believe this is happening."  
  
Understatement. Dean drained the last of his first bottle and popped the top off with his ring before another question occurred to him. "How'd you know we weren't Jensen and Jared?"  
  
Apparently the turn system was over. "You keep talking like that for one. How you opened your beer bottle. Where you ate. The way you guys sit near each other." She lit another cigarette and gave it a disgusted look. "There were a lot of indications. What made you think you could fake it?"  
  
The second beer tastes better than the first, and Dean's mouth engages before his brain does. It's an old issue that he's never really gotten under control. "Figured you were some groupie one of them was boning and there wouldn't be much issue."  
  
Her fingers jerked once, Sam gave him an ugly look, and then she started laughing before she covered her mouth. He saw tears follow close behind. Sam's sympathy face got stronger, but she waved him off. "Oh that would just be-wow." Her hand passed over her face once and then she settled her gaze back out in the darkness. "Why would they do this?"  
  
That made him angry, and he couldn't even explain why. Whatever it was between her and them she was some married chick sitting alone in a big old house with a bunch of research. The whole damn thing was off and she was handling this way too well. "They wanted to let you meet your heroes? I dunno lady what's the deal here? You are a groupie right? A big fan, and now you get to meet the Winchesters. Is it your birthday?"  
  
Morgan's eyes focused in on whatever it was she was watching in the yard, and then her hand moved on what must have been long habit and crushed her cigarette in the ashtray without looking. "Let's say you guys aren't two lunatics, let's say you actually are the brothers Winchester. That leaves us two options: one, you're in Jared and Jensen's bodies and they're trapped in there somewhere while you possess them. Two, they switched places with you and here you are. So what is the big picture attached to that?" Her voice dropped deadly low and soft even as her hands gestured along with her words. "There's a troll in Louisiana, no doubt killing people, and the only two equipped to take it on are trapped in another world. Your bodies may or may not be left there undefended and empty. There's a whole slew of people who depend on that show to continue their livelihoods, and I'm two weeks away from owing several chapters to my editor. In what way do any of us _benefit_ from you being here?"  
  
Dean worked his jaw silently for a long moment as he considered that and begrudged her taking his source of anger away. "Aren't you s'posed to want to meet your heroes?"  
  
Sam was laughing though. Laughing on that verge of hysterical that he sometimes did when a situation got so stressful that Sam couldn't take it anymore. Dean glared at him trying to figure out what had hit his brother's funny bone. Morgan rubbed at her eyes again before sharing Dean's incredulity.   
  
"You're-I was worried you'd be-Becky was-"   
  
And then Dean got it, and he was laughing too. Morgan's eyes narrowed, widened, and then she laughed with them.   
  
  
\------  
  
  
They drank for several hours, and when the beer was seriously depleted and their tongues tumbling around themselves she missed the table and lost her bottle. Stoned and drunk with strangers. He checked his watch and saw that it was after three in the morning.   
  
"Where t'hell is your hubby?"  
  
She didn't look his way. Sam's face cramped, and then he leaned in and spoke softly. "How long's he been dead?"  
  
Well that was left field. Of course Sam had read it right, because she looked up from her empty hands to focus on him. "Little over a year."  
  
 _Son of a bitch_. "Why the hell'd you get drunk with us? We're strange loonies and you're up here alone! You got a death wish?"  
  
The look Sam gives him is almost priceless, and if he wasn't so mad he'd lean forward and tweak Sam's nose just to send him over the edge. Instead he tries to focus his vision on the woman in front of him. The icepack is long gone, but her knee is still propped up on the stool to remind them all how fucking vulnerable she is. _Civilians_.   
  
"Ok. I'm more 'clined to believe you're Dean Winchester now. Good job on that." She burped once and then laughed. Drunk, there was a hint of the South to her.  
  
"This ain't funny sweetheart. You're crippled and sittin' around with two strangers. You could get hurt."  
  
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and her brown eyes were glazed and serious. "You gonna hurt me Dean?"  
  
He spluttered even as Sam smoothly interjected himself in. Sam always held back enough to be able to do this. "No. We're not. Dean's just being Dean. Maybe it's time for him to go to bed."  
  
That was enough to calm him down, and he squinted at Sam for a minute before turning his head back to her. "You know a good motel 'round here?"  
  
"Yeah. Spare beds upstairs. Don't break your necks." She pushed out of the chair and limped through the door, and Dean sat silently for a while before following her in. He found the stairs easily enough. Sam followed him and they stared at the doors for a bit before Sam bravely pushed one open. There was a double in there, and the door next to it exposed a room with a daybed and walls full of books. He pointed to the little daybed and nodded seriously. "Good luck Sam."  
  
"Hell no. What? I'm three feet too tall for that man." Sam's bitchface was back, and Dean was glad the ground under them was solid again. He threw out a fist, Sam matched him, and the fight was on.   
  
Fucking rock beating scissors.   
  
  
\------  
  
He was in a ballroom maybe, but there weren't people dancing and there was no music. It took him a while to figure out that the crowd in front of him wasn't so big as to seem faceless, but actually faceless. The blurry heads moved in front of him and then one materialized forward and came into focus. _Morgan_. Her hair was much shorter, and she looked less sleep-deprived, but her smile was the same tight and unsure look he'd seen before. One of the faceless people handed her a microphone and she cleared her throat away from it before she spoke.   
  
"This is probably a question for your writers but, uh, in ‘The Monster at the End of this Book’ you list Dean's two favorite songs as Zeppelin's ‘Ramble On’ or ‘Travellin' Riverside Blues’. The sentence is sort of ambiguous, but I was wondering if you meant Zeppelin's version or Robert Johnson's?"  
  
Dean went to answer and his mouth moved without him, his voice less raspy than normal, softer, and relaxed. "Wow. Uh. Wasn't prepared for that one. How old are you?"  
  
It's meant to be charming, he knows that's the aim, and the crowd laughs and takes it that way. Her mouth tightens though even as it curls into a "yeah nice one dick" smile. "Old enough. It's obviously not important."  
  
He feels the brain around his, and isn't that an awkward fucking feeling, stumble to catch up. "No, no it's a good one. I'd think it would be Zeppelin. Dean's a little young for Johnson."  
  
Her face says what Dean's thinking. That he's a hunter who has spent an incredible amount of time in backwoods bars. The chances he hasn't heard classic blues are pretty slim. Instead she nods once tightly and gives the microphone back to the faceless man before she merges into the crowd. A breathy voice starts talking, but the scene melts and shifts and then he's sitting on that patio again with Sam, _Jared_ the softer version of him states, and Morgan and a tall older man. They're all drinking, and her hair is longer now but she still looks younger and lighter. The older man leans forward and pats her knee even as he speaks, his blue eyes twinkling merrily.   
  
"She's in love with him. Just won't admit it."  
  
"She-" Morgan spears the man with her glare, "is not 'in love with him'. She admires him and-why the hell am I talking in third person?"  
  
He feels his shoulders shrug even as Sam/Jared leans back and laughs. "Why do you admire him? He's emotionally handicapped, an alcoholic, and he's got a brother complex to beat all others."  
  
The older man leans back and shakes his head. "Oh no. Here it comes."  
  
But her eyes are blazing and she leans forward to point a finger in his direction even as her drink sloshes over her fingers a bit. "Ok. First off alcoholism is not on the table here. We're having this conversation drunk and there's no way we can judge him for that. Emotionally handicapped? Ok I'll give you that one. The brother complex too, but only because they're all a part of what makes him… _him_. We're talking about a guy who dies for strangers, who sells his soul for a brother that abandoned him, who-Jesus how can you not admire him? You play him!"  
  
He feels the weariness there, as if the mind he's in doesn't want to hear this again. "He's not a bad guy, but really think about it. Everything he does is because he's been programmed for it. It's not because he's good, he's brain-washed by his dad."  
  
Dean wants to shout at him, but she's already there. The older man, _her husband Ray_ , grabs her shoulder but she's off already. "That doesn't-you're so reductive Jen. Go back, to way before the hunting and everything else and look at the picture without the name attached ok? You got a four-year-old boy and he's got one natural set of loyalties towards whom? His mother. Secondary on a kid that age is his dad, but a little brother? Always last, 'cause that's who's replacing him in his parent's affections. Little boy wakes up to hear his father shouting, hear terror, fire is burning in his house and his mom is missing. That's assuming he doesn't see what's in the nursery. So there he is, basically a fucking toddler, and this little upstart is dropped in his arms and he's told to abandon his mother and father to save it. Any kid that age would crumble under the pressure, or turn the baby out and go for the mother. What does he do? He carries the baby out, carries him out and holds him as close as he can to protect him, because that's what comes first. He breaks every logical step to literally carry his baby brother out of the fire. That's not just admirable it's fucking heroic. Everything that comes afterwards is defined by _that_ decision, and if you can't-Jesus you're like talking to a brick wall."  
  
Except he can feel that other presence, Jensen he's pretty sure, relaxing backwards as if the fight was just something he felt he had to do. An appearance he had to keep up in the face of something, but what Dean's not sure. Ray laughs and squeezes her shoulder. "Like I said. In love with him."  
  
"Joseph Campbell-" It has the sound of an old argument, but Dean's too fascinated with the fact that he sees himself standing on the other side of the little group now. The face looking at him is serious, drawn, and it points once before it speaks directly into his brain.   
  
_Help her. It's on the phone._  
  
  
\------  
  
He woke up to sun in his eyes and a major headache. Too much beer and too little…the events of the day before came rushing back and Dean fought a wave of nausea as he considered what she had proposed. Their bodies lying unprotected in Louisiana was bad enough, but the possibility that the actors were there pretending to be them was worse. So maybe they'd done it for her, or maybe they'd done it for an adventure. The possibilities seemed endless and mind-boggling, and Dean wasn't inclined to consider that. He needed a little hair of the dog and some breakfast to kill the ache left over from yesterday.   
  
He found her in the kitchen with toast on a paper towel and her fingers flying over the laptop keys. She glanced up at him for half a second before nodding towards the counter. "Cereal or toast. Coffee is brewed. I'll hit the grocery store later if you guys are staying."  
  
Dean poured himself cereal and sat the on the bench across from her as she continued to type almost frantically. Her eyes moved over the screen quickly, and then the she closed the laptop and looked up at him. "Are you guys staying?"  
  
"I don't see why not. You're our only clue at the moment. What are you working on?"  
  
She frowned at the laptop before leaning back and running her fingers through her messy hair. "My first realistic fiction. It's not working with me."  
  
The knowledge comes out of nowhere. "So you write fantasy novels usually right?" She shot him a look and he shrugged, made a guess, and came out alright. "I saw your shelves."  
  
"Yeah I've sold a few of them. I don't know what you guys eat other than diner food and salads. The show is kinda vague on that one." Morgan dug through the piles of research until she found a notebook and ripped off a blank page. "And I haven't cooked in a long time so I'm warning you not to pick anything too difficult."  
  
"We'll eat anything. How'd you meet Jensen Ackles?" He pitched his voice as soothing and unconcerned as he possibly could. Watched as her expression stayed stable as she wrote.   
  
"Convention. The guy holding the questions mic knew my books and he got me in the line so I could ask one. Afterwards Jensen tracked me down. He said he thought I was a plant from the show to surprise him." He watched her underline the words "hamburger meat".  
  
"What was the question?" He knows already, and that answers one of her suppositions from the night before, but he's not going to give that away. There's no telling if she needs to know or not. Honestly he'd rather discuss it with Sam first.  
  
Her cheeks turned a slight red, and she glanced at him before she went back to the list. "Whether you preferred the Zeppelin remake of 'Travellin' Riverside Blues' or the Robert Johnson original. He didn't know and the writers ended up not caring."  
  
"The Zep version." He sipped his coffee and watched her eyes dart sideways for a moment before resettling on the list. "But I like the Johnson one a lot."  
  
"Ok." She finished the list and stood, folding it before cramming it into her back pocket. Her knee wobbled once but she stayed upright. "I'll go to the store and-"  
  
"I'll go with you." Her eyebrow shot up and he shrugged and leaned back. "You ain't in the best condition to carry shit around sweetheart."  
  
Morgan looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn't. Instead she looked towards the ceiling of the room. "What about Sam?"  
  
"I'll tell him. It's cool." He half stands and then holds perfectly still. "You said your husband was visiting your uncle-"  
  
"I said he was _with_ my uncle. They're buried just a few minutes away." She dug through the fridge and pulled out a Coke. "Brush your teeth. Your mouth smells like eight kinds of ass."  
  
Which he did before he spoke to Sam, but only because he thought of it first. When Sam finally roused enough to listen Dean filled him in on the dream, and then mentioned the grocery store trip.   
  
"Wan' me go too?" Sam was never very good first thing unless there was danger, and with a hangover added he may as well have been several hundred pounds of child. Which was adorable, but not very helpful when Dean needed input from the smart one.   
  
"Nah Sasquatch just go back to sleep. When you wake up though dig around the house and see what you find."  
  
"Dean?" He raised an eyebrow and Sam smiled sleepily. "Get me some fruit 'kay?"  
  
"Yeah Sammy." He swallowed a lump and then left the room. Found her waiting outside with a cigarette in her teeth and a cell pressed to her ear. _In the phone._ She rolled her eyes and then hung up before shoving it into her back pocket.   
  
"Sorry. Let's get this field trip on the road."  
  
\------  
  
  
The grocery store was very large, so the fact that everyone who worked there knew her name was the first tip off that something was up. It became impossible to tell if people were staring at her, him, or both of them together. After a while he just tried to ignore it. She piled the cart high without ever referring to the list she'd made out so carefully. He wanted to comment on it, but the constant picture taking was really getting to him.   
  
"Is it impolite to break phones?" It's a growl, and the girl taking their picture scampers off so fast there's almost a cartoon trail of smoke.   
  
"Yes. Absolutely. Also illegal as hell. So don't." She's studying the beer selection with a squint. "Anyway they'll taper off." She ends up grabbing Yuengling and something called 60 Minute IPA that she swears is good even though Dean thinks the label looks a little untrustworthy.   
  
When they finally hit the checkout the guy at the counter greeted her by her first name, and then nodded his way with a polite, "Mr. Ackles."  
  
"Danny, hey, a carton too ok? I'm burning it down out there."  
  
The kid laughed, disappeared for a minute and then came back with a carton of Marlboros. "I haven't seen you in a while."  
  
She shrugged and poked at the candy display. "Well I've been working a lot. Hey has Peter been looking for me?"  
  
"He has." Danny frowned and fiddled with the scale for Sam's fruit. "I told him you'd been here the day before."  
  
Morgan's eyes almost danced. "Thanks kid. That'll keep him off my back for a day or two. I owe you one."  
  
"Does that mean a signed copy of this new book?" Danny looks half-hopeful and half-ashamed, but she laughs and that puts him at ease.   
  
"I'll give you a signed anything if you just keep him guessing. What's the damage?"  
  
The grocery total is high enough Dean winces, but she runs her card and then limps over to the cart. Danny's smile falters slightly. "Is your knee really bad today Morgan?"  
  
The pity in his face tightens her smile, but her tone stays friendly. "Yeah it comes and goes. I got assistance today though so don't even think about ditching your post."  
  
He nods, smile wobbly and unsure, and then waves at them before turning to the woman giving them both the stink eye.   
  
Dean follows her out to the car, shoves her gently before loading the trunk up, and then returns the cart before sliding into the driver's seat. Her face is tight but she doesn't comment on it, and he watches her fiddle with the stereo before she finds a classic rock station and sits back.   
  
"You like this music or are you humoring me?" He catches the side of her face, blank and purposefully forward, and then hits the highway that will take them back to her village.  
  
"I'm humoring you. So well that I actually made it a preset before you showed up to ruin my grasp on reality." Her fingers tap against the dashboard as she takes in the scenery. "Sam researching?"  
  
That surprises him, and for a moment he has to struggle to not give it away because he's not sure if she means what he thinks she means. Finally he finds his voice. "Yeah. Spells and shit. The normal. People always take your picture like that?"  
  
She shrugs once before cracking the window. The air is getting more bite and less warmth. "It's somewhat normal. The people who are used to seeing me don't, so it's not always that bad. Seeing you makes it an event I guess."  
  
"You don't go out with Jensen a lot?" He glances her way and sees the slight smile that dies fairly quickly.   
  
"No. Not really."   
  
They're approaching their destination when it hits him. "Who's Peter?"  
  
She huffs once. "My agent. Like a mother hen that one. I don't pay him for that service so I'm not sure what the deal is. He's got an axe to grind at the moment about a movie deal."  
  
"No shit. They're making one of your books into a movie?"  
  
Morgan nods instead of answering, and makes it out of the car in record time when they hit the house. Sam shows up to help unload groceries, and then takes over putting them away. His voice is fairly whiny when it comes out.   
  
"I've been trying to find the number for Jared's wife. I figure I should probably call her, but it's not in the contacts list." Morgan raises an eyebrow and then reaches over and plucks the phone off the cabinet carefully tapping the screen before holding it out to him. Her eyes are roving over the research on the table before Sam has a chance to say anything. "That's not-her name is Genevieve."  
  
There's a thick noise in the back of Morgan's throat before her eyes move off the research and land on Sam. "What?"  
  
"She played Ruby. The demon. In the show." There's a strain on his brother's face that isn't surprising considering the name often makes them fight. Hell Dean's hackles rise even as he's thinking it.   
  
Morgan's eyes narrow for a second before she shakes her head and opens the laptop. Her fingers fly, and then she turns it to Sam and points. "Jared is married to Alona. She played Jo." Dean leans around to see the picture. The familiar face perfectly lit, hair swept up and back, and bright and alive. She's almost sultry in it, and he recognizes it for what it is. A glamour shot, because as tempting as it is to think it Jo isn't alive here. That's the actress that _plays_ Jo. Still he stares at the picture for a long time. The real Jo would never have taken a glamour shot. Would have laughed at the thought of it. When he finally looks up there's a light dawning in Sam's eyes.   
  
"How long has he been married to her?" Sam's almost eager, face making connections Dean can't hope to follow.   
  
"Couple years. Multi-verse?"  
  
Sam's nodding as if they're having a real conversation. With full sentences.   
  
"So the stuff we couldn't get a hold of last time we might have access to this time."  
  
Morgan's grin is honest, full, and Dean wonders again just how she and Jensen are connected. "Which means maybe you can get outside help right? To go back?"  
  
"Maybe. I just need to look into it. Do you have a laptop I can work off of?" She disappears for a few seconds and comes loping back in with a laptop bag.   
  
"My non-business one. Server password is Hal9000." Her eyes are practically sparkling, and Dean can't take it anymore.   
  
"Hey, geeks. What the fuck just happened?"  
  
Morgan doesn't even bother responding, goes over to the fridge and digs around pulling out ingredients while Sam leans towards him. He gets a strong whiff of Sam's scent and has a moment to bite back a noise.   
  
"String theory Dean. Multiple universes. We didn't come here the last time, but we were close. This is still a universe where we're fictional, but Jared's married to someone else. So if we couldn't get Heaven's attention in the last place we may be able to get it here because it's a different world."  
  
Well that is kind of exciting, except it means something else too. He's been figuring up until this point that Jensen's cryptic messages are regarding Morgan's obvious issues. The girl isn't wearing make-up today, and he can see the hollows indicative of sleeplessness, the lack of real food, and the concern of those around her. If it was an emotional problem, and she probably has a good reason for that, she'd be better off in the hands of shrinks. If this is a world where the supernatural exists though, Jensen's plea may have been for something less conventional. He motions and Sam follows him out of the room, so he can relate his insight. It feels good to have the upper hand on this for once.   
  
"Dean we don't- that's not likely. I mean if there was something after her we would have seen it by now right?"  
  
"Maybe. Maybe not. She's played a lot of shit close to the vest Sammy. Maybe we should dig a bit."  
  
There's a suspicious look that enters Sam's eyes. "Is this because she's a redhead?"  
  
 _Damn_. "Does it matter?"  
  
Sam's face shuts down, and his eyes go cold and distant. "No. Of course not. Fuck away. I'm going to the library." He stalks off and Dean's left staring after him.

Jack Johnson starts playing from the speakers in the living room, and he goes back into the kitchen to find her washing red potatoes and green peppers.   
  
She doesn't look up from the vegetables. "Trouble?"  
  
There's this, she knows their history because she's watched the show. That's a problem, because Dean knows very well the kinds of assumptions people make off of that. Some of those aren't entirely off the mark, and Sam acting like a jealous girl isn't going to fucking help him avoid that. If she's asking in that vein though her face doesn't say it. Instead she continues to study the potatoes she's chopping into fine pieces.   
  
"Nah. Not at all. Hey, uh, listen I was wondering about…" He can't figure out how to get at it so he looks at the table instead. "Can I use your laptop?"  
  
Morgan's fingers keep moving rhythmically. "Yeah. Go ahead. Just don't use it for porn. I'm not sure if the IRS is allowed to look, but that'd be embarrassing."  
  
He wants to say something smart, but he settles for Googling her. It takes roughly six seconds to figure out she's overly modest. _Sold a few_ books his ass. She's been on the cover of Newsweek more than once, her work has hit the bestseller list four times, and this is the second movie they're making. Rumor has it Brad Pitt is being recruited for it. He finds articles about her being the new Jim Butcher, whoever that is, the new Stephen King, and the new Dean Koontz. He flips past all of those to the gossip blogs, and there it is. Pictures of her and Jensen Ackles on sites everywhere. He reads about the actor's womanizing, and the two dominant internet theories go the way of the flowery romantic or the cynical hard-ass. They can't decide if it's a case of heartthrob wooing geek or actor sleeping his way into a good role. Dean's not really swayed one way or another, but he has to say that Morgan may be smart but nobody would be taking a bullet getting her in bed.   
  
She's still chopping when he finally looks up. "The internet thinks Jensen is boning you for a movie role." Her hand never even hesitates, and her face never changes. He's not even sure why he said it out loud.   
  
"Yes. I've heard that one. Did you see the one where I'm sleeping with both of them to get a writing credit on the show? That's my favorite." She slides the pepper chunks off the cutting board and reaches for the kielbasa.   
  
"You're a big fucking deal aren't you?" She glances his way then, just once, before slicing the kielbasa.   
  
"That is what my editor and my agent tell me yes. It may even be true." Her hands are like machines, and her face is still blank. Carefully so. "Never saved the world though, so don't get intimidated."  
  
"I'm better at gallows’ humor than you." She gets the hint, and her head nods before her eyes drop. The music changes to Metallica and Dean's temporarily distracted. "Sweet. This is a pretty mixed playlist you got Morgan."  
  
Except she doesn't try a witty comeback or a brush-off. Instead she's staring at the chopping board blankly as if someone cut all her strings. It sets off the weird shit alarm and he gets up and crosses the kitchen to see she's sliced into her hand instead of the sausage and she's not moving to stop the blood flow. He curses once before knocking the knife from her hand and lifting it above her heart while applying pressure.   
  
"You got a first-aid kit?" She nods dumbly and he leaves her there to check the usual spots. He finds it beneath the bathroom sink and brings it back before nudging her to the sink and washing her hand off. It isn't too deep, but it's bleeding a fair amount so she's probably on blood-thinners. Post-surgery clots can be a bitch, but he's not sure if this long after such a surgery they're still a concern. "You wanna tell me what you were thinking about?"  
  
Dean moves her to the nook and pushes her down before he starts applying butterfly closures and gauze. Her eyes stay on her hand. "I don't know. Mind wandered. You can hear that?"  
  
When he's done he gets up and heads to living room, because Sam may be able to make crazy intellectual jumps but Dean's instincts are golden. He finds the stereo they've been listening to this whole time, and sure enough it's playing Metallica, but it ain't plugged in. He makes a noise and the music stops, and then he heads back into the kitchen.   
  
"Tell me about your husband's death."   
  
He honestly expects a pithy remark or redirection. Instead she stares at her hand like she's been dead for weeks and he's summoned her back to chat.   
  
"Ray was military, and he wanted to keep guns in the house but I said no. He gave in. That's important to the story. So one night it's late, he's asleep, and I'm mid chapter revision. The book is almost done, and I'm probably three or four beers in. Not enough to be drunk but enough that I'm not paying as much attention as I should be. There's this noise from the stairwell, and I go to check it out because sometimes Ray wakes up and comes to get me. Remind me that sleep isn't an outdated concept. Except it's not Ray it's some guy I don't know, and there's that couple of seconds of disconnect you get when you're buzzed and someone has confused you. Which is enough time for him to swing the hammer and take my knee out. That's good for me I guess, because I fell down the stairs and he wasn't expecting that. He missed my head. Whether the sound of me crying out or the sound of me tumbling got Ray up I don't know."  
  
Her voice cuts off for a second, and her hands move over her face and then drop back into her lap. Dean hasn't moved from the position he took to bandage her, crouched down and face-level. She's still not emoting.   
  
"He followed me down, and the hammer came a couple more times. I was dragging myself away at that point, but he was just following and slamming away. Which was when Ray came out of nowhere with this knife. I missed a lot of this part, but the blood splatters and the police reports kind of tell their own version. I can extrapolate from that. He sliced the lunatic's arm once, and then got him in the gut. They grappled, they fought for the knife, and then he got it away from Ray. Then the stabbing started. Police call it overkill. Which is a funny phrase because I think any killing is overkill, but that's the term they used. Fourteen times, and by then I had dragged myself to the alarm system and engaged it. The phone was ringing like crazy, and I could hear the sirens but he was still going. The guy took off, and I dragged myself over and grabbed at Ray and I could find his pulse. I swear I could. Except the hospital told me that he died on the scene, was dead before the last stab, and that nothing could save him. They said later that he hit me in the side and broke a rib, that I had a concussion from the stairs and that the claw part of the hammer took a good slice from my lower back. I don't remember any of that, but I've got the scars so it's objectively true."  
  
Morgan looked up then, and her eyes met his and stayed perfectly stable. There was something burning there, something low and deep, and he'd seen it before but he couldn't remember where.   
  
"It was Jensen that took me out of the hospital. He made these crazy trips down as often as he could for the physical therapy I ended too quickly and to just make sure I wasn't going insane. Which I was. If he couldn't come Jared did, and they coordinated it with my agent and my editor so that I wasn't wandering around the house alone on my crutches talking to myself. But that's not how Ray died it's just the epilogue."  
  
He stood then, and he opened the fridge and pulled out two beers before popping them both open and holding one out to her. She took it gratefully and gulped for a while before putting it down to suck in air. When he spoke there wasn't much question from the state of his voice as to what he thought. "They catch the son of a bitch?"  
  
"Yeah. Sort of. Suicide by cop." Her fingers twisted the bottle around before she took another gulp and crossed back to the sausage. "Can't say I was happy he didn't spend some time getting ass-fucked, but that's me. Hypocrite to the end. Vote Democrat and root for execution." Her slicing was more cautious he noticed, and briefly Dean wondered if the knife came from the kitchen.   
  
There were more questions but they could wait. He needed to run it by Sam. He needed Sam to ask them. He'd exhausted his emotional reserves already. "So who's Jim Butcher?"  
  
That got a response, and he wasn't too surprised by it. She started laughing as she coated the pan with oil and turned the stove on. "He writes modern day fantasy set in Chicago. How many trashy websites about me did you read?"  
  
"Enough. They said you were replacing Stephen King."  
  
Morgan rolled her eyes and dropped the meat into the pan. "That's highly unlikely. We don't even write the same stuff. I wish I was on that level, but that sort of thing takes a lifetime. When did you and Sam cross the brother line?"  
  
Dean drops his beer. It's the worst possible response he could give her, but it's all he's got at the sudden punch in the gut she throws. _Dean please-just please-_  
  
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about." It's a growl and she doesn't even glance his way.   
  
"Ok. No big. You might want to send a text and tell him there's maybe thirty minutes before dinner or whatever the hell this is gonna be is." And that's it. She doesn't push and he doesn't offer more. At least he shouldn't, but she just spilled her guts all over the floor in front of him and there's something in the air that hits him just right. Maybe it's her seeming indifference, or the fact that she lives in another universe and can never tell anyone. Whatever it is his mouth starts moving and won't stop.   
  
"I was drunk. Really drunk and angry and it happened. It was a huge fucking mistake."  
  
Her head nods simply as she adds potatoes to the skillet.   
  
"He thinks we should do it again, but I know better. We can't fix that shit if it goes wrong."  
  
Morgan's eyes narrow as she stirs the skillet and then leans back and uses her non-injured hand to rub at her face. "Oh yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. Sam's gonna see that eventually. Kid loves normal, and incest ain't that. Not even close."  
  
She doesn't look his way when she responds. "Once a season Sam storms off after some fight you two have. Ray always used to say, 'Sam's got sand in his clit again.'"  
  
The laughter is so sudden and surprising it almost hurts. She doesn't grin in response though. She just stirs the food and watches it while Dean uses her cell to text Sam.  
  
  
  
\----------  
  
  
  
He can actually see the struggle between Sam's brain and his heart. The kid knows logically that he's supposed to be polite to her, hell he probably _wants_ to be polite to her, but he's angry and suspicious. Right up until she starts spooning out the concoction she's made and he sees the bandage. One eyebrow goes up and Dean sees it, but Morgan responds without expressing anything at all.   
  
"I'm being haunted. Also I didn't make a vegetable, but there's bag salad in the fridge for you." She drops the skillet down in the middle of the table before sliding onto the bench across from them and pouring ketchup over the mishmash of potatoes, kielbasa, and green pepper. There's a long silence before Sam's mouth starts moving.   
  
"Wait I don't-the ghost cut you? What were you doing when it attacked?"  
  
Her eyes are almost amused. "Cutting sausage. I got distracted and sliced myself instead. It's the damnedest thing, but it seems not all my problems are mental anymore. You want salad?"  
  
Sam shakes his head before shooting a look at Dean. "Did you know she was being haunted?"  
  
It's so damn surprising and adorable that Dean starts laughing, and Sam's face is understanding even as he glares. "No Sammy I was not aware. I forgot to bring the EMF over."  
  
"Well we can work with this. What's been happening?" Sam's in research mode now, shoveling food in his mouth even as his big old brain starts cataloging all the things they need to do and handle. A simple salt and burn in another dimension. It's like the best and worst of every case added together.   
  
Morgan's face goes blank again as she spears a chunk of kielbasa and bites into it. "I'm not-uh-"   
  
But Dean understands instantly. Gets what's happening in her brain and where it might be going or not going. "Do they have you on medication?"  
  
"Yeah, but I haven't really been taking it." Sam's eyes are darting in between the two of them and Dean doesn't want to make her tell the story again. "So I haven't really been sure what's real and what's just me being off. When you called I figured it was going to be the two of them coming to lecture me about meds."  
  
Sam starts adding things up, and his face is so sympathetic Dean winces. "When was the last time you had a real meal or a full night's sleep?"  
  
Morgan pushes a green pepper away before biting into red potato slices. "Probably a week or two. Can't seem to get my shit together for an appetite."  
  
Dean can see where this is going, and he'd like to have the talk with Sam in private later. So he redirects because he's good at that. "Hey Sammy, no shit, Morgan's famous. Wrote a bunch of books and stuff."  
  
Sam glances his way once and then looks back at her. "I read about it. Your short story about the woman in Purgatory was really good."  
  
Of course Sam actually read her stuff. It occurs to Dean that maybe his little brother was researching the woman more than the situation at the library, but that can wait for later. Sam's gotta get his head in the game but lecturing him about it here won't do them any good.   
  
"Thanks. I always liked that one. I find my best stuff is always unrecognizable after a few weeks."  
  
Sam nodded and then leaned in and began to passionately debate with her about influences. Apparently he'd read her whole damn biography because he seemed to know everything to say to get her to respond. She finishes the meal in front of her and Dean eats his own and then gets seconds before the two of them have even begun to wind down a little. It's soothing to hear Sam talking. They've been so tense recently he almost forgot how good it was to hear the kid passionate about something.  
  
Although really applying the word passionate to Sam is a can of worms recently and Dean doesn't have any interest in opening it more than he is absolutely required to. After all it seems like if he can get Sam to stop acting like a jealous wife they'll be ok. This whole "other world" thing is sufficient to distract his little brother, and no doubt the geek theorizing will begin any time now. Once that's in play Sam will spend so much time waxing philosophic Dean will be left with the more mundane details and no cold shoulder treatment. He's fine with that. Better than fine really. The sooner Sam moves on the sooner they can forget.   
  
_Dean, Dean I need-_  
  
An elbow catches his ribs and Dean looks up to see Sam giving him a superior stare. "What's a matter Dean? Little lost?"  
  
Morgan isn't in front of him anymore. Instead she has left the room, and he can hear the distant strains of one-side of a conversation. Something about being fine.   
  
"No. Thinking. Will the ghosts here work like the ones in our world?" It's so bizarre to say it out loud he almost stumbles on the words. They've done some weird shit, but dimension traveling is still in the top ten.   
  
"Probably. We'll have to experiment with it though. She tell you who the ghost was?"  
  
He thinks of the blank look on her face. The gunless house, and the admission. Guilt is a powerful fucking thing, and Dean is a scholar when it comes to that.   
  
"I have an idea. I'll tell you later. If these two chuckleheads play us wouldn't they know all our tricks for taking care of a haunting? Why would they need us for this?"  
  
Sam's face goes pensive, and Dean wonders if he knows how that pout works on him. That little lip bite, and the resulting crinkle in his forehead. He hates how well Sam can manipulate him. He wants to ask Sam if he dreamt last night, if maybe Jared tried to drop him some hints, and he still needs to get on that phone. All of that can come later though, because if Dean doesn't put some damn space between them there's going to be a problem. Over his shoulder he half throws what little he can manage to force out.  
  
"Gonna take a nap."   
  
Dean doesn't really expect to sleep. Instead he just wants to lie down until the stress and tension bleeds out, but there's only a few minutes of him lying there before he falls deeply asleep.   
  
Ray is sitting on the couch and arguing with Jared about something. He doesn't know what, because his eyes are fixed on Morgan's ass as she bends over and digs through the cabinets.   
  
"I can't believe you don't know the Metallica discography. Research Jen. It's all about research for believability. Shit I don't even like most Metallica and I know it."  
  
He leans against the counter and crosses his arms. "That's because your hubby loves them. I just can't get into it. Plus everybody expects me to love it. I'm not Dean." He almost sounds bitter, and Dean wants to smack him but he's just an observer right now.   
  
She glances his way and then smiles broadly. "I know you're not Dean. You are a good actor though, and I've heard that actors do research to get into their roles."  
  
There's a huff from his mouth, and then a very long period of time where he watches her brush shoulder length red hair out of her eyes before she starts frying hamburger. "What would you know? You're not an actor."  
  
"No I am certainly not. They asked me to do a cameo though. The King reference. God I'm tired of that one. I'll never live up to it."  
  
Ray comes in then, slides an arm around her waist and gives Jensen a knowing smile. "How's that hot little number from the soap opera treating you?"  
  
There's a confusion of emotions here that Dean has to sift through. Jensen likes Ray despite being jealous of him. At the same time he's being baited and he's obviously kind of upset about that too. He forces a grin. "Wouldn't know. We broke it off. She wanted to get serious."  
  
Morgan gives him a scathing look. "You're going to have to commit sometime Ackles. You're an adult now and that happens."  
  
"I thought I'd just piggyback your domesticity while I live the high life." It's forced, almost brittle, but she doesn't catch it. Is too busy fending off Ray's advances while she tries to cook.   
  
"Make yourself useful old man and boil some water for noodles. The wheat ones." Ray rolls his eyes theatrically at Jensen as he moves away.   
  
"You famous people. Always so damn demanding."  
  
Which is when Jensen heads through the door and lands in a hospital room. There are security guards stationed outside the doorway behind him, and the thing slides silently shut before he turns back to the scene in front of him. The actor's mind is screaming a variety of feelings. Panic, rage, horror, and sorrow all mixed in with this protective feeling Dean knows all too well. The ratty faced man waiting for him inside looks up and then moves forward to whisper.   
  
"She hasn't spoken since she woke up. They're going to do reconstructive surgery on the knee, but she'll never get full use of it again." He glances over his shoulder before turning back and gripping Jensen tightly. "She's fragile man. Just be careful ok?"  
  
The man, _Peter_ Jensen's mind supplies, slips out of the room and then he's crossing the space with heavy feet and facing her. There's a gash on her forehead that they've sewn shut. Her eyes are focused on her feet, and the sling holding her shattered knee up and stable gives him too fine a view of what was done. She's propped up, and Dean knows that's because of the wound on her back. He takes the seat beside her and gently grips the hand not attached to the IV drip.   
  
"I came as soon as I could. Jared and Alona are going to come in a day or two, and we're all here for you ok? Morgan?"  
  
Her eyes rise slowly and then land on his face. Her voice is thick, laced with opiates and pain. "His sister is going to be so angry. I told him no guns."   
  
There's a spasm of grief Dean completely understands. He's been in too many hospital rooms, held too many people's hands, and he knows how bad this can get. She's somewhere between shock and anguish, and there's no talking to that.   
  
"A gun wouldn't have changed what happened darlin’. Ray knows that. His sister can deal. How are you?" He's petting her small hand softly, and his voice shakes. Dean can feel the tears leaking out.   
  
"They said he was a fan. Like the guy with Harrison. A crazy fan. Ray wanted us to hide more and I said no Jensen. I told him no." She looked up again then, eyes burning with sincerity and grief even through the painkiller haze. " _I did this_."  
  
"No. Shit babe no. This wasn't you so stop that. Right now. It's gonna be ok. You're gonna get through this." And when she started to cry he awkwardly wrapped her up and held her.   
  
Dean woke up to arms around him. It took a second to realize it was Sam, and that he was actually crying. He pushed, but Sam held on.   
  
"Just a nightmare Dean. It's ok. It was just a nightmare."  
  
Except it wasn't. It was Jensen Ackles's _memories_ , and Dean has enough grief to carry without having the writer and the actor added to it. He has a lifetime of deaths under his belt, and one more shouldn't mean much but they're making him live it like he was a part of the loss. Stripping him of that careful boundary between victim and vengeance. So without him really thinking about it he's pouring the story out into Sam's neck as he lets himself be surrounded by the smell that's just a little wrong. Jared's body doesn't have the same feel as Sam's, isn't the right earthy musk, but it's close.   
  
Sam holds him through it, rubs his back and shushes him the way Dean used to when Sam was little. The way Dean did after that terrible mistake. When it's over, when he has control again he pushes and Sam lets go. They put space in between them, and that hurts worse than the nightmare did.   
  
  
\------  
  
  
He sees Peter before he sees her. The guy must have shown up while he was sleeping. He rubs at the back of his neck before catching Sam's eyes and then joining the two of them outside on the patio.   
  
"You're not goddamn eating. I can see you're not eating. Are you sleeping? Are the meds still working?"  
  
Her eyes landed on him for half a second before flittering away. "Working fine Pete. All is well. Chapters are almost done."  
  
His eyes narrow and his hand grabs her arm tightly. "You don't need a deadline. I'll tell them to back off but you don't need to be writing. It's the one year kiddo. You need to be drinking or whatever it is you're allowed to do on those pills so you can relax."  
  
Dean stepped up at that point and Peter's eyes really took him in. "I'm glad you guys are here. She actually listens to you."   
  
Sam nods and puts a hand on her shoulder, and Peter eyes it for a second before Sam takes it back. So Jared doesn't touch her. Or something. "We'll keep her in line."  
  
They fall into an argument about casting, and then the new book. When it's over Peter leaves and she rubs tiredly at her eyes before opening a beer and collapsing onto the patio chair to smoke. Morgan eyes him carefully. "Have we figured out how to get you guys back yet?"  
  
Dean doesn't have the vaguest clue, which is why Sam apparently has the answer tucked in his pocket because he pulls it out casually like they all should have known before.   
  
"We get to go back when we fix whatever problem it was Jared and Jensen specified when they did the spell."  
  
Her eyebrows hit her hairline, and then she puts the placid mask back on and looks out into the yard again. Dean actually follows her gaze this time and studies the big tree she's staring at. _Interesting_.   
  
"So they thought I was being haunted and they found a spell to summon the experts. That's…I don't know if that's admirable or messed up. I'll have to shake their hands when I finish beating them. Beer time?"  
  
On that he can agree with her.   
  
  
\-----  
  
Sam's gone in to find a whiskey bottle she swears is hidden in some cabinet somewhere. Beer just isn't doing it for any of them right now. He lets his mouth move without him. "How'd you know?"  
  
Morgan's fingers tap restlessly beside her cigarette pack as if she can't make up her mind about opening it. "I'm a professional writer. We're good at reading between the lines. For example right now you want me to chastise you so that another voice dissents. Sam won't help you with that." She reached for her beer bottle, shook it distastefully, and then leaned back in her chair. "You may as well give up on that one."  
  
"Why?" It's not supposed to sound whiny, but _goddamn it_ , she's the first person to find out and there should be some judgment here. Some kind of anger or disgust, because that's what Dean deserves.   
  
"Other than the fact that I just don't care? I just don't care."  
  
"But-we're-fuck Morgan we're brothers."  
  
"Yes. I know that." She finally gives in and grabs a cigarette. "I took that into account."  
  
"It's incest, and he's like…he's Sam."  
  
"You want me to what? Argue with you or agree with you? Now I'm confused." She takes a deep drag and then looks his way. "Until earlier today I believed I was going clinically insane. I'm still not entirely sure I'm not. This is not the sort of resource you tap for a life-changing decision Dean."  
  
"You're the only resource I got." It's pathetic, sounds pathetic, and they barely know each other but this is probably his only chance for outside input. Somehow it matters.   
  
"Ok. Let's look at it this way alright? What else have you got going for you Dean? Really. You got this little brother you've spent your life devoted to and now he's all grown up. He's being honest with you, he's being responsible, and he needs you but he doesn't _need_ you. So are you going after the idea of being with him because you love him like that or because he'll _need_ you again?"  
  
"That wasn't the goddamn question. I ain't afraid of Sam leaving. Sam leaves all the time. Sam would still leave if-"  
  
"Stop. I don't want to hear that part. That's your abandonment issues talking and they're important to character development but not this conversation. Are you lusting after your brother or after the feeling of being needed?"  
  
And that's a damn fine question, because the fight leading up to the issue at hand suggests the latter. Dean's not sure if it's true, but if it is it certainly worked. The idea that he would play on that though. Play on Sam's need and love to get the feeling of being the big brother again. That's not a good one, and he's not too fond of the implications.  
  
"If you were writing this which would it be?" It's out of his mouth before he's even fully formulated the idea, and her face says she knows that.   
  
"I would make it the first. There's always been this 'will they won't they' air about you guys. It's what fuels all the goddamn fanfiction. You're too bonded for real brothers, but too close to be not brothers. If I had to pick I'd go with the first, because you hate yourself a good deal but you're not a bad guy." She inhaled through her nose and then blew a slow stream of smoke out of her mouth. "But I'd write two more giant fights before you got your head out of your ass and realized Sam's old enough to make his decision and incest is a taboo created by a society you put no stock in. Then I'd make you the bottom to show how sorry you were for being a dick. Also, _probably_ , tears."   
  
Dean chewed on that before responding. "I bet your books suck."  
  
"One or two critics agree with you." The door opened and Sam came stumbling out with a whiskey bottle held high in victory. The dimples in full glory and his big eyes crinkled in joy. He caught her gaze. "But then again they hate happy endings."  
  
  
\------  
  
  
The ghost waits until they're drunk, because ghosts? _Fucking inconsiderate_. They've moved it inside because it's raining and the temperature has dropped way below bite and into uncomfortable. They're sitting in the living room, her on the floor with her leg stretched out and he and Sam on opposite ends of the couch. Enough space to be comfortable without being obvious. Dean's got that happy blank feeling he gets sometimes when the mood hits him just right and the liquor has done its job. Sam's kinda hazy, not as controlled as he should be, and this is the first time they've both been this drunk near each other since that night. He's kind of ruminating on it as she and Sam discuss quantum something with slurred voices. _Just don't-God Dean please-_  
  
That desperate look on Sam's face, and the way his lips were swollen with blood as he reached out for Dean. Begged him not to react the way he obviously did. Which is when the wedding picture on the mantle falls and hits the bricks of the fireplace. Morgan gives it a suspicious look before pointing once and forcing words out.   
  
"That fucking happen?"  
  
Sam nods seriously and looks to Dean, face a mixture of disbelief and concern. "Maybe we should-"  
  
Which is when things get insane. Dean's first reaction is always Sam, and his first action is always the civilian. He can't throw himself over Sam every time things get dangerous, and the woman is sitting and staring stupidly as glass begins to explode all around them. Picture frames shudder and warp, the window blows inwards, and Dean's over her and blocking the glass even as he's shouting at Sam to get the fuck down. It ruins the haze, sharpens his focus, and when the incident ends they're sitting perfectly still in the suddenly cold living room in a wasteland of glass. Morgan's eyes are unfocused and dark, and Dean checks her over before turning to Sam.   
  
His brother was smart enough, or sober enough, to duck down and cover his face. So it's only the backs of his uncovered hands and one spot on his throat that have fine cuts. Dean looks over every one even as Sam starts talking.   
  
"Dean. Holy shit Dean. Your shoulder man. Your shoulder." It doesn't make any sense and Dean starts to haul Sam up so he can push him to the bathroom and wash out all the little cuts. Except pulling on Sam sends agony through him, and when he looks Morgan's face is pale and her hands are shaky. She pushes her way up awkwardly and stumbles even as Sam is trying the same maneuver. The two of them get him to the bathroom, and he sees in the big mirror that there is a chunk of glass several inches long buried in his shoulder. _Well fuck_. Maybe he's still drunk because it's almost funny and as long as he doesn't move it he doesn't feel the glass there. Which is when fucking Sam pulls it out. There's a high noise that escapes his mouth and then Morgan is shoving the little first aid kit their way and stumbling out of the room. He can vaguely hear her throwing up somewhere else and Sam cleans the wound.  
  
"What the-oh fuck Sam slow down!" But Sam is not slowing down. His fingers are almost vicious as he cleans blood off Dean's skin and digs in the first aid kit. His brother looks angry, lost, and then Sam looks up and shouts over his shoulder.  
  
"Morgan! I need a needle and fishing line! You need a better kit!"  
  
Dean shoots him an ugly look in the mirror. Sam, the fucking sadist, digs his fingers into Dean's flesh and sways. They could all still be pretty drunk. Morgan's arm comes into the bathroom just enough to drop Sam's request in his hand and then she's gone again. She may be muttering but he can't be sure. When he looks up Sam is cleaning the needle and the line with rubbing alcohol.   
  
"Sam it's not that bad man. Calm the fuck down ok?"  
  
Sam hits him. It's so unexpected Dean reels away from the punch and into the wall before those big hands drag him back upright and Sam starts to sew his shoulder shut none too gently. He hisses but keeps his mouth shut.   
  
"Goddamn, arrogant, selfish, crazy bastard." He's not even sure if Sam is talking to him or just talking. "Glass in your goddamn shoulder and you want to pull me up-fuck this is _so like you_."  
  
"Shut up Sam." He wants to hit him. He wants to kiss him. He's still very fucking drunk.   
  
"Why? You don't want to hear about being an idiot? Then don't be an idiot. Idiot." Sam's face cramps in agony at his own words and he finishes off the stitches and pulls back to point his finger at Dean and express his distaste. "You want to run around like you're fucking invincible, but you're not." His hands fly around passionately. "And you want to help me but you can't be anything else but this. I can't stand it Dean."  
  
So he does the stupid thing and holds still when Sam leans in. Feels those almost-right lips touch his and slant, and then he's licking into the taste of not quite Sam while his arousal surges and his fingers move. Sam pins his bad shoulder down to keep it stable even as he takes control of the kiss. When they pull back he looks half-dazed, which goes well with his anger.   
  
"Don't do this to me." His face says he wants to take it further, but Sam's voice is pleading. Broken and drunk and utterly fucked-out. "Don't make me that Dean."  
  
Whatever _that_ is he's not sure because suddenly Morgan is in the doorway staring at them. Sam goes pale, but her eyes flutter over them before she points to the window behind Dean.   
  
"I need a cigarette."  
  
He growls at her. "Get one then."  
  
But Sam understands even if Dean can't come up with the reasons. "I'll go with you. You're not alone." And just like that Dean is ashamed and drunk and angry all at once, while Sam is reasonable and caring. He follows her limping gait, and Dean collapses back against the wall and breathes hard.   
  
  
\-----  
  
  
When he's finally under control he comes out to find them sitting on the patio. She has one leg stretched out and the other tucked against herself, and she looks so small and delicate Dean hates that he growled at her. She's wrecked, and Sam's face says he knows it and doesn't know what to do. When she finally speaks the slur is gone even if her eyes are still glazed and unfocused.   
  
"It's not Ray."  
  
"Morgan sometimes when people die they-"  
  
"It's not Ray. He wouldn't have-"  
  
Dean moves in and takes her hand. It feels wrong and right all at once, and he wonders how close to the surface Jensen is capable of coming. If Sam ever has those same alien feelings. She looks at it and then follows his arm up to his face, voice shocked out of her at the touch.  
  
"It could be as simple as him not realizing he's hurting you and as complicated as him wanting to unite you two. It ain't a mark against his character sweetheart it's the way things go. Dead people lose touch."  
  
"-an anchor to come back to I was going to say." She looks unaccountably embarrassed, and her hand pulls from his and fumbles for her cigarettes as she blushes in the unforgiving flood light. "His sister was against cremation. Violently so, but Ray said I had to. Insisted. So I bought two coffins, and after the open-casket the funeral home switched them out and buried the empty one. I spread the ashes on that tree." She nods to the spot she's been staring at this whole time.   
  
Which makes things really difficult because the ghost is showing all the signs of being her husband, but the chances somebody kept a little piece of him without her knowing are kinda fucking slim. That puts this ghost higher on his "annoying shit" list.   
  
"Ok. We go over everyone who's ever died here. Anyone it could be. We'll find out the ghost's identity and move from there Morgan." Sam's voice is kind, soft, and she glances his way as her fingers jitter inches from her face. "We'll figure it out. Dean and I are pretty good at that."  
  
She nods once and then takes a very deep drag. "We'll need to board up the window. There's a shopvac in the garage that can get the small glass up and-oh fuck." Suddenly she's crying and her hands are covering her face. Dean manages to get the cigarette from her fingers before she lights her pretty red hair on fire. "This is so fucked. It's all so fucked. Whatever happened to fiction huh? It was so easy when it was all fiction."  
  
There's a look on Sam's face, something like sympathy but with an undertone Dean can't name. "Yeah. It really was."  
  
  
\-------  
  
  
They part company hours later, and Dean wonders what this is going to do to her sleep cycle. He and Sam are trained to change from nocturnal to diurnal, and he wonders if her sleep deprivation is only going to get worse.  
  
He brushes against Sam as they split up to go to sleep, and then he's standing in the room with the day bed and the bookshelves, looking around for a way to forget everything that doesn't include getting drunk again. He finds the shelf with her books, and picks one made up of short stories first. He finds the one Sam referenced quickly and moves through it. He remembers vaguely English classes in high school and middle school, and he's pretty sure the style is familiar but where it comes from he can't say. It's not the heavily detailed type of fantasy he's used to from his one foray into Tolkien, and that makes the non-reality of it all the more real. He follows the story slowly, eyes soaking in every detail of the nameless protagonist’s journey through Purgatory. Dean knows from experience that Purgatory isn't just for unsure souls, but he can give her a pass on that. The ending is ambiguous, but not bleak and that's surprising. He flips several pages and lands on a story about two best friends who have superhuman abilities. It's a jump from the tone of the last one. Warm and soft where the Purgatory story was sparse and confusing.   
  
The boys grow up as the light seeping into the window suggests morning has finally arrived and broken some of the cloud cover. The younger one turns his back on the older, on the concepts of honor and heroism that they swore themselves to, and goes in for himself. Now they're adults, bitter enemies, and there they are locked in a room together as the older one slowly dies.   
  
_"Todd, Todd I need-"_ He closes his eyes for a second and reminds himself that the young man in the story is not Sam no matter that it's his brother's voice he hears as he races to the end. Even though the words become so close it could be that night all over again. _I need you to tell me you love me. I can forgive everything else, but just once. Just once tell me._  
  
And suddenly Dean is there again. The smell of Sam tangled up with the scent of whiskey and both of them drunker than they have any right to be. Dean angry, angrier than he thought he could be with Sam lately, because Sam's eyes are wounded and heavy. Because he's looking at Dean like there's a way for Dean to fix the slowly eroding link between them. It's not that he loves his little brother any less. It's that he loves him more, more than he should, more than he's allowed to, and with every change in Sam Dean finds it's harder and harder to hold that back and smother it. He's got Sam pressed against a wall and he's grinding words out against Sam's ear.   
  
_"Fuck it. Sam you hear me? Forget that shit. What d'you want from me?"_ Sam's eyes were shining in the half-dark, wet and big, and Dean found himself licking the trail of a salty tear off Sam's cheek. Licking down to his brother's mouth and then forcing his tongue in between gasping lips as he tastes Sam for the first time. Tastes liquor and heat, Sam's mouth so hot it could burn his goddamn tongue off. He half expects Sam to push him away, but instead big hands are gripping the sides of his face and now Sam is tasting him back, moaning in the back of his throat as he holds on like Dean's his last thread.  
  
Dean jerks at the next sentence. Surprised at the turn even though he shouldn't be. _Todd's eyes closed once and then his face turned away from Mark. His cheek pressed against the metal wall, skin so pale it's almost translucent, and fingers weakly fluttering as the poison burns his blood. Boils him inside and out the way he thought he'd incinerate from the friction and heat of Mark's body. "Yeah. Of course I love you. What good does that do you now?"_  
  
Sam's fingers wrapped in the back of his jeans, tangled into the belt loops as they eat away at each other and Dean's so eager to get his boots off he doesn't realize they're already gone 'til Sam laughs into his mouth. They're naked moments later, skin pressed against skin and Dean tasting his brother's hipbones as he fights the urge to fuck him dry. What were they fighting about? Was it this? Because this is a good idea. Best idea he's ever had. If he'd've done it earlier Sam would never have wandered away, and the thought has him sinking his teeth into Sam's hipbone to mark him. He tastes blood and sweat, and above him Sam actually fucking keens.  
  
 _"Dean, please-just please-"_ Sam can't even get words out in full sequence as Dean breathes against the hard cock in his face and then licks up the vein. He hears that noise again and thinks it's the most brilliant sound Sam has ever made. Best one since Sammy used to say he was the world's most awesome big brother. He licks again and again until Sam is gasping and jerking, and then Dean slides his fingers into Sam's mouth. This is gonna hurt his brother, and he wants to hurt him. Wants to break him the way Sam's gone about breaking Dean all these years. Wants it over with.   
  
_"It means everything asshole. It always meant everything. When did you get so stupid?" Todd finally looks up to see Mark’s hazel eyes taking him in. He feels a little better, isn't sure why, and then Mark is collapsing onto the floor. "Always meant everything."_  
  
He was buried inside Sam, his brother almost struggling under him and it takes Dean's whiskey-soaked brain and overactive protective urge several hideous seconds to figure out Sam is urging him to move not trying to escape. Sam makes that keening noise again and starts moving, and Dean's licking sweat off his jaw and biting his throat as he begins to thrust. It's hard and painful, and he can't be giving Sam pleasure but his brother is moaning like a whore anyway. Dean's name seems to be the only word left in Sam's vocabulary, and that's a good thought. The best thought.   
  
_"Come Sam. I ain't got much-fuck just come for me."_  
  
 _"Mark? Mark you fucking moron what did you do? You're a villain jerk. Remember? Bad guys do bad things? Mark?"_  
  
 _“Dean, Dean I need-"_ Sam's gasping and there's blood pulsing behind Dean's eyes, filling his head, and if he doesn't come soon he's going to die, but Sam has to come first. Cannot come in second to that. He reaches down and grasps Sam's cock, stripped red and raw between them, and starts to stroke but Sam's head is shaking and there are tears in those big pretty eyes again. _"Say you love me. Just once say it."_  
  
And Dean does. Says it over and over again, but he only has to say it once for Sam's whole body to start to spasm under him. The tightness of Sam's ass gets so bad Dean's pretty sure he's lost blood flow to his cock, but he keeps pumping and declaring his love even as Sam is an octave away from roaring, big head slamming against the pillows as he thrashes and spasms. He keeps saying it, keeps thrusting, and just as Sam is starting to go limp Dean bites his lip hard enough to taste his own blood and comes in jerks and stutters inside Sam's tight channel.  
  
Now he's lying in this room remembering that moment, the warmth and duplicity inherent in every second of being that close to Sam. Being that connected. Mark is dead, at least Todd thinks so, and the hero is burying the only person he ever wanted to save as the world celebrates around him. Dean shuts the book without reading the end, and closes his eyes against the sudden burn. Because that's the next morning and not that night or this one. He buried Sam the next morning when he stood up, brushed his teeth, and told Sam in the calmest tone he could manage how big a mistake it was. How it would never happen again.  
  
How Sam didn't need to act like a clingy one-night stand.


	2. Sam

Sam is dreaming. He’s had a variation of this dream every night since they landed here, and while he knows Dean is having them too he hasn’t told his brother about his own messages from his host body. At first it was because Dean was raw, and then because he just didn’t think it was necessary. Now, as he stares through Jared’s eyes, he wonders if that was his way of avoiding admitting how badly he doesn’t want to be here.  
  
Jared’s standing in the hallway in Morgan’s house, staring out the windows set into the door and watching Morgan wave her hands angrily as she talks to a man roughly her height with an angular and ratty face. The man’s eyes are narrow, and his lips work overtime while red burns in the cheeks of his pale face. Jared fills in the details Sam is missing in a quiet and unsure voice. _His name is Peter and he’s her agent. We’re here because she sounded off and Jensen wanted me to check on her. When I got here Ray had just come back from a business trip. This is the part where I walk outside._  
  
So Sam walked outside, and got the end of Morgan’s angry response. “-tell them I didn’t sell the rights because I knew they’d pull this on me. I wrote that part _for him_. I wrote it for him. Pitt can be in the next movie, because this one is _for him_.”  
  
Peter’s eyes sweep him once and Sam can read the mixture of relief and something a little bit like hatred. “They know what they’re doing Morgan. It won’t kill you to let this go. Maybe a smaller part, or a smaller movie, or _something_ but not the lead.”  
  
“They try to stop me or block me and the movie never gets made. This won’t be a repeat of Kubrick and _The Shining_ , I won’t have my work butchered for Hollywood’s approval. They cast Jensen or they don’t cast anybody.”  
  
The agent looks to him, face both pleading and accusatory. “Tell her Padalecki. Tell her this is a bad move. That Jensen won’t want it either, because this will only make the rumors worse.”  
  
He hears someone open and close the door behind him, but he can’t make Jared’s body turn. _Ray, it’s Ray. This is the part that’s important._  
  
Jared’s mouth moves, forming words that sound hesitant and displeased, “I can’t speak for Jensen or what he’ll want. I do think he doesn’t care about the rumors.”  
  
“Thank you. Jesus a voice of reason. Ray tell him why it has to be Jensen.”  
  
But when Ray steps around he doesn’t look like the light-hearted and happy man Sam has seen in the other memories. He looks burned out and exhausted. “I would but I don’t know. I do know this has gotten old Mo. Maybe it’s time to give in.”  
  
Her big brown eyes narrow down and her lips twist in a sneer. “ _What_? Dahlia’s spewing her suspicious bullshit again right? So my integrity, the integrity of my work, comes second to your sister’s belief that I’m sleeping with an actor.”  
  
Ray steps forward, reaches for her, and then aborts the movement at the last second. “It’s weird Morgan. Dahlia just recognizes that.”  
  
Sam feels awkward here, caught in between three very obviously arguing people, in the body of a man closely interconnected with the source of their disagreement, and trying to figure out how to slip away unnoticed even as he wants to stay and understand.  
  
“They’re my _friends_ and your sister doesn’t even know me. I’m a bad influence remember? I suck and everything I do is bad and-“  
  
“She’s old school. You know that. She’s old school and she thinks that you’re spending too much time with other men. I kind of agree.”  
  
Morgan’s eyes sweep over and land on him. “Then divorce me asshole.”  
  
Then Sam is standing in her house, holding her hands as she pulls helplessly and twists against his hold. _I didn’t understand. I just didn’t understand_.  
  
Her eyes come up, hollow and desperate, and Sam wants to pull her in, but Jared is too shocked and aghast to act properly. “Morgan. Morgan talk to me.”  
  
“Let me go. Oh god let me go I can’t do this. I can’t live without- _please Jared_ -“  
  
Sam looks down at the wrists he’s holding and sees the blood, slick and hot and painting his skin. “Morgan we gotta get you cleaned up darlin’. This is bad. They look-“  
  
“I can hear him. I can hear him at night Jared and I can’t live like this. I can’t live like this, so please.”  
  
He doesn’t listen, doesn’t grant mercy, and instead he pulls her away and bandages her wrists carefully. Feeds her sedatives and watches as she falls asleep before he pulls his phone out and taps out numbers. It rings once, and a voice that is like Dean’s but less gravelly answers swiftly and surely.  
  
“ _Jay, what’s going on?”_  
  
“She tried-oh shit Jen this is bad. She tried to off herself. We gotta do something man, or she’s gonna finish herself off. Did you get the stuff?”  
  
 _“Yeah. I did. Soon as the break starts we’re gonna have to do it. It has to work.”_  
  
Jared/Sam hangs up, and then watches her. When she wakes she’s more stable, apologizes for her behavior, and begs him not to tell Jensen. She won’t do it again. She promises. Her eyes tell a different story.  
  
 _We had no other choice. You can see that right? We had no other choice. She keeps hurting her._  
  
And that? That doesn’t make any sense, but Sam is awake now, and he can’t ask Jared what he meant.  
  
\-----  
  
  
  
When Sam comes into the kitchen and hears Fall Out Boy he raises an eyebrow and she smiles at it. Her look is strained, and her hands are busy scooping the insides out of potatoes and dropping them into a huge bowl. The counter is covered with ingredients, and it’s obvious she’s been at this for a while.   
  
“It’s ok. I put it on. Ray never cared for them. Too poppy or something.” Her hands shook as she scooped out the next chunk of potato flesh, and the skin cracked in her hold. “Shit.” She dropped the whole thing and put her hands over her face. “Shit, shit, shit. What’s-oh god what’s-“  
  
Sam was moving before he had time to consider whether she’d want it or not, instinct and training taking over. He’d been taught to look through lies, to see what lay beneath the thin veneer of civility people used to cover their darkest secrets, and it had served him well over the years. What he had taught himself though was to be Dean’s counterpoint, to know when things needed to be soft and gentle. He’d learned how to offer comfort, how to see despair, and how to soothe it as best as possible. It was something his brother was exceedingly bad at, and it let Sam fill a niche that would have otherwise been lacking in their emotionally restrained family unit.  
  
Both his arms encased her, and he could smell the grief and misery rolling off her as she gripped his shirt in little hands and sobbed her fear into his chest. His hands moved mechanically over her back, slow and steady, gentle, and he let her cry it out before he started speaking. “Ok. Ok Morgan I got you. I got you now.”  
  
When she finally spoke she sounded all of five years old. “I’m so scared. I’m so scared. What’s happening? I’m going crazy right? You and Dean aren’t here, and there’s no ghost, I’m just sitting in the living room and this is all in my imagination. Right?” There was hope there, but it was steeped in fear, and Sam couldn’t tell which answer she really wanted to believe, because she didn’t know either.  
  
So he changed the subject, and _that_ was a trick he knew from his father and brother. “What are you making?”  
  
“Twice-“ her voice hitched and then she pulled back and rubbed viciously at her face, “twice-baked potato casserole. Enough cholesterol to kill lesser men.” It sounded like an old joke, and Sam offered a smile that she tremulously echoed.  
  
“Sounds exactly like something Dean would adore. Is it one of Jensen’s favorites?”  
  
She rolled her eyes and picked up the potato again, hands moving with precision and care.  
  
“No. Jared. You may not be able to tell by the way he feels, but he’s a glutton like none I’ve ever seen before. It’s a crime against nature that he isn’t a thousand pounds.”  
  
“I feel that way about Dean a lot.” He watches her mix the potatoes with cream and eggs, pour in cheeses and spices, and then she spoons the whole concoction into a casserole dish and sprinkles cheese on top before shoving it into the oven. Her eyes travel over the kitchen before settling somewhere a foot off of his face.  
  
“Ray used to call this kitchen therapy. Said it was my way of dealing with stress that writing couldn’t work off. I would bake, a lot, and he would sit back and tell me that as much as he hated seeing me upset he loved the cookies.” There's this dreamy fond look on her face that makes Sam hurt and yearn, and he sips his coffee and looks out to the tree she indicated the night before.   
  
"You loved him a lot," It's not quite the point he wants to get too, but he can make his way there slowly. He's used to circuitous conversations.   
  
"Yeah. I really did. I can play the full widow and pull out pictures if you'd like. I've got enough of them." Her grin is sad when he glances, but her fingers only shake a little.   
  
"I'd like that. A lot. So were you and Jensen-?" He cuts himself off and makes a hand gesture. _Slowly Sam. Go slow._  
  
Morgan raises one red eyebrow and then sets the timer. "No. Just friends. He’s not-it’s just not like that. He’s not into commitment and I’m so-" She makes a wobbly hand gesture and looks back into the dining room where a tall bookshelf stands next to another window.   
  
Sam grabs a seat on the nook bench and listens to her dig through the bookshelf before she returns waving a giant photo album. She wasn't joking about the amount of pictures. Morgan's fingers are steady and her face blank again as she flips through to the front and points to the first picture. Her eyes aren't as dark, and she's a little heavier in it. The man standing next to her has one arm casually flung over her shoulders, and they're squinting into the sun behind the photographer. There's a smile that lurks on the corner of his lips, and her fingers are twined around his pants leg.   
  
"I was eighteen. Working on my first book and my B.A. Ray was thirty-three. We met through a mutual friend, and I was in love with him two days later." She flips through pages. Pictures of them with groups of people, most in a small apartment filled with books and DVDs. She points people out every now and then but mostly she just lets Sam look and soak it in. The story is easy to follow. She gets thinner as the years go on, their clothes look just as cheap but the surroundings get a little fancier. Moving day to the house they're in now, book signing, wedding day. He sees the introduction of the two actors, sees a variety of things, and when it's done he breaks protocol and simply jumps to where he wants to be.   
  
"About what you saw last night. I just-"  
  
"You and Dean have known each other Biblically. It's ok Sam I got the memo." She took in his nonplussed expression for a long time and then leaned back in the nook's bench seat and rubbed at her eyes tiredly. "I told Dean and he didn't have the grace to deny it properly. Is this where you start pumping me for an opinion?"  
  
Well she'd apparently given Dean one. It occurred to Sam this may be the only time in his life when he had a chance to ask someone. Plus she'd never be able to tell anyone they knew. So he nodded and watched her face carefully.   
  
"I told Dean that I don't care. I don't. Whatever broke that dam, good for you. Or bad if it's going to be something you guys can't get over. Either way you deserve a little happiness I think."  
  
Sam snorts once and then leans in and points to a picture of her slung over Ray's back with her mouth open in an eternal squeal. "We'll never be happy. That's not the way it goes for Winchesters."  
  
"That's the most depressing goddamn thing I've ever heard you say." Morgan squints once at the picture before shutting the album. "I'm a widow at thirty and I'm still not that depressing. What does that say about you?"   
  
"You didn't hear what he said. You didn't see his face. He was…it's never going to happen. He's got this crazy idea that I'm not old enough or informed enough to give consent, and when Dean gets like that there's no swaying him."  
  
Morgan raises an eyebrow before tapping his shoulder. “It couldn’t be that bad. You guys say some heinous stuff to each other all the time. Did it top the ‘If I didn’t know you I’d want to hunt you’ moment?”  
  
It’s hard sometimes to bridge the gap between reality and understanding, and Sam thought he knew that. For example, reality is that she has watched their lives play out on a television screen while she sipped a coke or ate popcorn or whatever. Understanding that she has witnessed the worst of Sam’s life, has taken in all of his sins and tragedies and can remember them in a way that is totally impersonal and forgiving, in a way Sam has no chance of doing, is a completely different thing. A thing that doesn’t hit him until this moment, when it feels like she’s punched the breath out of him.  
  
“How did-what-you saw that?”  
  
A look came over her face, and then she bit her lip and shook her head. “Sorry. I didn’t even-Jesus I’m an idiot. Of course that would be terrible to mention. Look don’t listen to me, I’m not great with face to face interaction. It’s just not my thing. I didn’t mean anything by-“  
  
“It was worse than that.” He thinks of the cold expression on Dean’s face. Eyes closed off and jaw tight as he cast that disapproving look, as he told Sam just how little it had meant with the worst words he could have possibly chosen.  
  
Morgan’s eyes are sad and warm, but her face stays carefully composed and blank. “What did he say?”  
  
“That it was a mistake. That the whole thing was the combination of my availability and alcohol. That I needed to act differently and put it behind us.”  
  
Which is close, so goddamn close, to what actually was said. To be specific, Dean’s words had been _“We messed up Sam, but we won’t do it again. You stop throwing yourself at me, and I’ll stop being a drunken idiot and taking it. We gotta put this behind us little brother. We can do that if you stop acting like a clingy one-night stand.”_  
  
Her lips twitch once, and then she stands and limps over to the fridge before pulling out a bottled water and offering him a second. He takes it, and watches her screw the cap off hers and drink long and deep.  
  
“Can you forgive him?”  
  
Sam has to consider that. Can he? Can he get over the part where even now Dean will only turn to him when desperation is involved? Can he forgive Dean for taking something that Sam knows meant everything to both of them and relegating it to the trash heap with every other casual fuck he’s ever had?  
  
He doesn’t know. He honestly can’t tell, and that bothers him. Before he could say there wasn’t anything Dean could do that would make Sam consider not forgiving him. They’ve been through so much, let so much go, but this one hits too hard and too close. This one takes years of longing that Sam tried so hard to subdue or forget, to hide from Dean’s ever watchful gaze, and makes it the exact type of _dirtybadwrong_ that Sam always knew it was. Showed him all his fears were stupidly true.  
  
It’s the antithesis of Dean’s purpose really. His older brother has spent his entire life proving to Sam that his fears are unfounded, protecting him from injury, and generally trying to keep Sam safe and whole at all costs. It’s weird, it’s cataclysmically weird, for Dean to be the one to confirm Sam’s fears. For him to the thing Sam is _afraid_ of. Maybe Sam played that role for Dean when he was fighting the demon blood, when he was traipsing around with Ruby making a general monster out of himself, but Dean has never done it to Sam.  
  
So when his mouth moves he can’t stop himself from letting it pour out like pus from a wound. “I don’t know. I just can’t-it’s Dean you know? It’s Dean. I knew he’d be angsty over it. I knew that he’d bring up the line, and how important it was we stay on the righteous side of it. He’s spent his whole life so programmed from dad that he can’t get over that belief that I’m a baby that has to be held safe and sound against a cruel and unforgiving world. When I was little I loved that. Loved him _for it_. But it chafes after a while, and going to Stanford was supposed to help but it didn’t. It just screwed things up worse, and now here we are all these years later and I can’t figure out what I want or what he can give me. I know he kind of hates me for leading him down that road, but can he forgive me for it? And if he can will I forgive him? I don’t know.”  
  
Morgan’s fingers rub at her chin for a second before she looks over her shoulder at the oven and the slowly building smell of melting cheese.  
  
“Dean ever tell you about the dream walking epi-incident? About what he saw when you two were split up?”  
  
The look Sam gives her is sufficient, her face says that, but he answers verbally anyway. “No. Dean’s never been good at necessary sharing and caring.”  
  
She simply nods before starting to chew on the skin of her thumb. “Well, there was a scene in that, and he sort of faces off with himself. Except it’s not him it’s the version of him he sees coming down the road. It’s demon Dean, and the two of them get into it physically and verbally for a little bit. Anyway, it’s just a projection of his subconscious, and that means anything it says is what your brother believes right?”  
  
Sam nods hesitantly. Doesn’t like the way this is going. Because he remembers the timelines, and he knows now what he didn’t know then. The knowledge Ruby gave his brother, and how Dean carried that sentence of damnation around silently until he finally cracked and let Sam promise to help him.  
  
“The other him, the dark him, told him he was ‘daddy’s little blunt instrument’.” Sam gasps harshly, unable to stop himself, and Morgan nods. “Harshest fucking thing I ever heard anybody say about themselves. The point is, Dean believed that then. I can’t help but wonder if he still does. He had a revelation moment then, but that’s not the kind of mental scarring you just shrug off. So maybe, the first step to forgiving him is knowing that he’s not mad at you, he’s mad at himself.”  
  
“You have a psych degree your biography didn’t mention?”  
  
Morgan’s eyes glitter for a second, and Sam’s pretty sure that’s the look the actors have known for years. If Jensen Ackles is in love with her, it’s that look that would cause it.  
  
“Nope. But I write a fair amount of dialogue, and I have pretty good character development. Lets me see deep into the human mind.”  
  
With that she opened her laptop, and began to busily type. Conversation effectively ended, and Sam was pretty glad.  
  
  
  
\-----  
  
When Dean finally joined him downstairs Morgan was outside in the sun with a cigarette in her fingers and her head turned away from them. Sam waited until Dean was fully in the kitchen and trying to inject coffee down his throat without the necessary civilities of swallowing or sipping.  
  
“Dean. We need to talk. In those dreams Jensen is sending you is he giving you any hints?”  
  
Dean’s jaw moved as hazy eyes traveled over the room and then settled on Sam’s face. He could see the way Dean was favoring the shoulder that got hurt the night before, and he wondered just how much pain Dean was carrying around, and what it would take to purge him of it.  
  
“The phone. He’s been pretty damn insistent that there are answers on the phone, but I can’t get the damn thing unlocked.”  
  
Sam nodded thoughtfully and then pointed to his skull. Or Jared’s skull. It was hard to keep up.  
  
“I’ve been having dreams.” Dean collapsed across from him and raised an eyebrow so he would continue. “About Jared. Or from Jared. Anyway, the main thrust seems to be about marital difficulties Ray and Morgan were having.”  
  
Dean looked out the window and grunted once. “Actors?”  
  
“Yeah, but not directly. Ray had a sister that didn’t seem too fond of Morgan.”  
  
“I think I-she mentioned the sister in the hospital. Said the woman was gonna hate her.”  
  
Sam nodded, pieces of the puzzle struggling to get in line and together. “Maybe the haunting is the sister? We should ask if she’s still alive and terrorizing Morgan, or if she’s dead where she’s buried.”  
  
His brother squinted both eyes thoughtfully and finished his coffee. “Not a bad plan Sammy. We’ll make a hunter of you yet.”  
  
And Sam? Well he was a pretty reasonable guy, but that was sort of low and ugly. Sam had been hunting exclusively for years now, and he was pretty sure he’d paid his damn dues. After all, how many hunters could claim the sort of personal death toll as him, or how many times he’d saved the world, or how much bullshit he’d put up with from Dean? Honestly Sam was pretty sure at this point he needed to be nominated for sainthood.  
  
As if Dean could read his mind, the little smile playing at the corner of his lips died and his eyes shuttered and swept off of Sam’s face and somewhere far away. “Lighten up bitch. It was a joke.”  
  
Except it really wasn’t, and Sam knew that. “Maybe you should pick your jokes a little better.”  
  
“Maybe you should lighten up.”  
  
“Maybe you should face your issues so we can be friendly again.”  
  
Dean’s lips pursed tight and angry and he slammed a fist into the table. “My issues? My issues at the moment are that we’re supposed to be saving that woman and you can only focus on that one mistake. My _issues_ are that we have no idea if this will really get us back or what it means that our bodies are there and not occupied. My _issues_ have to do with you thinking it’s ok to be more than brothers, because that shit is bad Sammy. It ain’t normal, and you know that. Tell me you know that.”  
  
He stood and waved his hands once, passion bleeding into resignation. “I know you think it. I also know that doesn’t mean it’s relevant or true. It _meant_ something. I _saw_ you asshole, and I know that it meant something to you. It meant-Jesus Dean how can you do this? How can you pretend like this?”  
  
Green eyes burned hotly, and fists clenched tight. “I’m not pretending anything Sammy. I’m being me, and me says you don’t fuck your little brother.”  
  
“Oh yeah? Well me says-“  
  
The timer went off, shrill and sudden, and then the door opened and Morgan came through and eyed both of them before grabbing a potholder and pulling the casserole out. She didn’t look at them when she spoke. “Awkward.”  
  
  
  
\-----  
  
“There’s bacon in here.” It was the first thing that had been said in half an hour, and Sam jerked at the sound of it. It was hard to tell if Dean sounded more pleased or scandalized.  
  
Morgan, for her part, simply stared at her plate as broke off another small bite before carefully lifting it. “Yes. About a pound.” She bit the cheesy concoction and chewed slowly.  
  
Sam kind of wanted to scream. There was no way to play off the tension in the room. Dean could try, but this wasn’t something that would be buried, and that was ultimately their problem. Burying this would bury them.  
  
But Dean would try, and Dean would keep trying until Sam gave up or they had one of their explosive fights that ended with Sam swearing he would leave for good and finding out, _once again_ , that he couldn’t get away from his brother. That he couldn’t escape.  
  
It was almost a relief when the light fixture crashed into the table.  
  
Morgan’s scream cut over the sound of the crashing glass, and Sam was unable to get out of the bench fast enough to catch her before she’d stumbled out, twisted her bad knee, and crashed heavily into the fridge. The metal casing of the fixture swept forward dragging the casserole dish with it and slammed into the smooth white front of the fridge beside her head.  
  
Sam was up then, hands slamming out and catching the table before it could move too and decapitate her. The shock of the wood slamming into his palms reverberated up his arms even as Dean was shouting his name, and then Sam was officially wrestling with a kitchen table.  
  
It seemed like forever before Dean was there, shoving with him, and then his brother’s gruff voice broke over the chaotic sounds filling the brightly lit kitchen. “Morgan go, get out of the house!”  
  
Sam watched her out of the corner of his eye, saw her roll over, watched the knee collapse on her and then she crawled out of the kitchen. He could hear other things in the house crashing and falling, but at the moment all he could think of was the adrenaline rush of pushing against the table, until he heard the outside door slam and the table went slack in his hands.  
  
Beside him Dean breathed heavily, and then green eyes locked him in place even as Dean’s rough hands grabbed his and lifted them up to inspect them. Despite the fight they’d been having and all the tension Dean’s touch was gentle and tender. It reminded Sam of the beginning, of all the things that they weren’t supposed to think about, and then it was gone and Dean was leaving him in the kitchen. Sam followed, found Dean outside pulling Morgan up off the pavement of the patio and inspecting the fine cuts along her face and neck.  
  
And was he surprised when she grabbed onto his brother and called him Jensen as she shook? When Dean simply rubbed her back and stayed silent? Not really.  
  
\----  
  
For some reason it fell to Sam to pack Morgan’s clothes, and he was suspicious that if they weren’t still on a knife’s edge Dean would have called him a girl, and said that gave him permission to touch her underwear. For which Dean would have earned a massive punch, and Sam felt a little like punching Dean right about then.  
  
When he finally finished he came out to see Dean standing in the driveway, plush lower lip trapped in between his teeth as Morgan sat curled in a blanket and shaking while she lit one cigarette off of another. She looked up at him, and her red-rimmed eyes were on the edge of hysteria. “I can’t-was it-“ she shook herself and drew up a little, “did you see it? Was it Ray?”  
  
He threw the bag to Dean and his brother caught it easily. Sam wanted to be back home. He wanted to fight a troll, something known and easy, but that didn’t seem like it would be on the menu any time soon. Instead he was trapped here, in another man’s body, taking care of business for some actors, and hating his situation more with every moment. He took a knee beside her, reached out and plucked the cigarette from her fingers before extinguishing it in the ashtray, and then gently cupped her face. Neosporin shone where Dean had carefully applied it, and the tracks of dried tears stood out against her face amongst all the tiny red lines.  
  
“I didn’t see. I’m sorry Morgan. We should have got you out of here last night. That was our oversight, but it won’t happen again. We’re going to hole you up nice and safe, and then Dean and I are going to figure this out and get rid of whatever is doing it. I promise you. We won’t let it hurt you again ok?”  
  
She took several deep watery breaths, and then her smile came tremulous and unhappy. “I’m such a pansy. I’m sorry. If I was writing this I’d make myself strong and helpful, but I can’t handle-I just don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”  
  
Sam brushed red hair back and thought about all the times they’d had people fall apart on them compared to the situations in which the victims handled having their entire world shattered with violence and anger. He almost preferred it this way. The other type of reaction…it always resulted in something bad. “No one expects you to do anything specific. You’re handling this really well. Believe me, I’m an expert. Now tell us where to drive you. A local hotel, some place you can hide out.”  
  
Morgan let herself be carried to the SUV, and Dean drove while Sam sat in the back with her. She huddled low, pressed against his side, and shook the whole way. After she’d been settled into the motel room with her bad knee propped up carefully and swaddled in ice Sam made sure she had her phone at hand and was as comfortable as she could be. She muttered ominously when he offered her painkillers, but she ended up taking them obediently and letting herself be soothed by the sound of his voice.  
  
When they got back into the Denali Dean’s face was grim and cold, and he backed out of the space before heading towards the turnpike. The GPS told them that the nearest occult store was over a half hour away, in the closest major city, and Dean drove with finality and purpose. The radio droned in the background, low and quiet, and Sam let his head rest against the seat as the road rumbled beneath them.  
  
“We shoulda taken her out last night. Why the hell didn’t we take her out last night Sam? Rookie shit.”  
  
In Sam’s head his response was delivered with perfect poise and grace. _Well Dean, that’s because we’re in love with each other. Like brothers, but brothers who really want to taste each other’s skin, and that’s distracting us. I’m in love with you, but I can’t have you and it’s making me crazy. I’m tearing myself apart because all I can feel is you, and all I can hear is that goddamn line you left me with. That last blow where you basically told me I was the same as every bar slut you ever took home. For your part, the distraction is because you feel guilty about what we did, what you said, and how I’m reacting. You want to grab me up and cuddle me, you want to soothe me, and you can’t. So instead you went to Morgan in a desperate attempt to get that tenderness out of your system before you directed it the way you wanted to. Technically you’re suffering from cognitive dissonance._  
  
What came out of his mouth sounded wrecked and exhausted. “I don’t know.”  
  
  
\----  
  
  
The occult shop turned out to be much better stocked than Sam could have hoped for. The woman behind the counter was knowledgeable, friendly, and most importantly professional. Usually going somewhere with Dean made watching him flirt an unavoidable eventuality. Sam was grateful for the little things.  
  
After their night together Dean has been kind enough, or torn up enough Sam wasn’t sure, to wait two nights before he got back on the horse. The end result though, had been a two month span that made Dean look like he was personally trying to outstrip Sodom and Gomorrah for the right of trashiest place in history. His brother came home every night reeking of so many different chemical scents and fluids Sam couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him most nights.  
  
Dean was kind enough not to comment on Sam sleeping in the Impala. He’d give him that. And while it hurt, and it hurt worse than anything Sam could remember, it wasn’t something he hadn’t expected. Dean was reasserting his ability to be active with other people, enforcing his statement to Sam, and reassuring himself that it was a one-time thing. His brother’s coping mechanisms were fairly easy to predict.  
  
He was dragged out of his memories by Dean parking in the wrap-around drive and eyeing the house suspiciously. “If that thing is so attack happy should we make the bags out here?”  
  
“Probably the safest idea.” Something was nagging at the back of Sam’s head. Something he couldn’t pin down long enough to really remember or figure it out. Instead he worked over the almost second-nature process of creating the little wards against ghosts. When they were done they used the house key on Jensen’s ring to open the garage door and go through there. Two hammers to punch holes, and an iron bar as a weapon didn’t feel as complete or ready as Sam’s shotgun loaded with rock salt.   
  
  
The house was old, the research he’d done placed its construction in the twenties, and that meant the walls were solidly built and harder to break into. The bill to fix the holes they’d be making would be kinda pricey, and the patch job he was planning on with putty wasn’t going to be much of a fix at all. It was going to look terrible too, and there wasn’t anything he could-  
  
Sam stopped, hand poised backwards and held perfectly still as he stared at the fourth hole he’d made. It was the last room upstairs, and he could hear Dean banging away downstairs. Sam looked around the room, at the books that had fallen in the earlier attack and the rumpled sheets. It was the one lesson Dean had never taken from dad, making his own damn bed. Too dependent on the idea that they’d be leaving the motel and the maid could take care of their mess.  
  
His mind jumped from one place to another, Dean’s habits, the books sprawled out, the distant banging, and then it clicked. Sam had punched four holes in the walls. Sam had placed three bags. The worst part of the whole process had been breaking through the thick old walls.  
  
 _Nothing had put up even a bit of fight_.  
  
Sam jumps the last step and almost crashes into his brother. Dean’s got the hammer half-up and an eyebrow crawling into the region of his hairline. “What? It after you?”  
  
There’s a half second where Sam wants to snap at Dean, because _really_? “Get Jensen’s phone and get in the car. We’ll talk on the way.”  
  
And Dean? For once just goes along with it. Which makes Sam bitterly happy.  
  
  
\-----  
  
It takes all of three seconds to type the name into the password slot and watch the phone’s home screen glow into life. Dean glances over once and manages to sound both harried and aggrieved. “How the hell did you do that?”  
  
“I used her name.” He started with the text messages, and found only one in the inbox. Sent from someone simply named Horner, _I found what you wanted and it should be in your inbox. I implore you to contact the police Mr. Ackles. If this information is correct your friend may be in serious trouble. If not the police may I suggest a good security firm?_  
  
“I tried her name Sam. What do you think I’m stupid?”  
  
He bit his cheek and scrolled through options until he found the inbox. The actor left it logged in, and Sam was grateful even as he cursed at the volume of mail. It took a few seconds to find the email in question.  
  
“No Dean, I think you used her maiden name, which is what she writes her books under. Her _married_ name is Luludi.”  
  
Dean’s fingers tap briskly on the wheel as he takes a turn in the Denali too tight and bumps over the curve. How much time has passed since they doped Morgan up and left her in the motel room? A half hour to get to the shop, a little less than that getting their ingredients, the stop at the diner, almost an hour back to her house, the assembly time and then all that wasted time putting holes in her walls. Four and a half, maybe five, and then the time it’ll take to get there.  
  
“Luludi? Doesn’t sound…shit Sammy is that Rom?”  
  
“Yep.” He scans through the beginning information, Horner talking about the investigation and what it took to find what he wanted and what it meant. Then he found the emails in question between Ray and his “old school” sister.  
  
The information is basically what he expected, and he reads it as he talks to Dean. “All the ghost was doing before we showed up was driving her nuts Dean. Pushing her to suicide, but not _attacking_ her. It was all too personal, and we were going in too many directions to notice that.” His lips tighten when he sees the email Horner collected from Dahlia to Marcus Vigelli, the crazy fan he’d read about in his research on Morgan’s attack. The one in which Dahlia tells him how to get into the house without being detected.  
  
“And then it got nuts because it thought we were the actors and we were spending time with her?”  
  
“No. The actors have been there on and off for the last year and that never set it off.” He flips to the end and sees conversations between Ray and Dahlia in which the dead man begs his sister to understand. To accept his decision to trust Morgan, and to not try anything. To not fall on the “old ways”. “It was after we started proving we were something that could stop it. When we started searching into what it was. The ghost knew we were close to figuring it out, and it got nervous. Tried to jump ahead instead of slowly making her do it herself. Jensen hired a private eye who found conversations between the sister and the guy that attacked Morgan, and Ray begging her not to do anything. Remember what Morgan said? About Ray insisting she cremate him?”  
  
“Yeah. Thought that was just preference but…he must not of wanted his sister to use him against her if he died.”  
  
Sam’s lips tightened and he found the last piece of evidence. Something that Horner didn’t understand, thought was simply driven by malice, but Sam got the implications all too well. Jensen must have understood it too. “But she paid for Vigelli’s funeral. So that the state wouldn’t cremate him. Which means the haunting isn’t-“  
  
Dean’s fist struck the steering wheel as he turned into the town’s main drag and headed towards the edge of it and the motel they’d left Morgan vulnerable in. “Locked down to a location. It’s wherever the bitch wants it to be. How much Vicodin did we give her?”  
  
“Enough to keep her asleep for at least six hours.” Sam closed the phone and rubbed his eyes. “Enough to keep her out of it if anyone showed up.”  
  
And when they reached the motel room and found it empty, the door half open and the sheets dragged and blood spotted? Sam wasn’t surprised.  
  
  
\-----  
  
  
Dean’s hands were fisted in his short hair, the muscle in his jaw ticking off as he held himself in a tight trembling line, and Sam watched him for a bit before he gripped his own knees. “Ok, let’s think about this. She wants to hurt her, and she knows we’re at the house. So the house is out. If she wants to make it personal and painful where would she go?”  
  
His brother shakes his head and looks up to the ceiling. “Someplace with resonance, something she’d know why she was there and what she did. Someplace that’ll hurt her.”  
  
Sam thinks of the pictures of Morgan leaning on Ray, eyes young and bright, happy and alive. All the years he’s been doing this, and it still amazes him how absolutely shitty and terrible human beings can be to each other. Dahlia’s hatred had achieved nothing but her beloved brother’s death. At least until now. Now when her hatred was so focused she would-  
  
“The graveyard. She must have tried to use her brother first, and when it didn’t work she went with Vigelli. If she’s taking everything personally then Morgan switching out the coffins and denying her the use of her brother in her vengeance scheme must have made her crazy.”  
  
“Er. Crazier.” Dean’s hands come down, and he flashes that proud smile Sam has always loved. The one that makes him feel a hundred feet tall and magical. “Good work Sammy. Let’s do this.”  
  
The GPS easily finds the graveyard closest to Morgan’s house, and Dean drives like a maniac the whole way there. The winding and deserted back roads are pitch black and Sam manages to not yell at Dean to slow down when they come over the top of a hill and leave the ground for a short time. This car is too big for his usual antics, but Dean has no other way to act, and Sam has no interest in fighting again. Not now anyway.  
  
Sam spends the ride assembling what little ordinance they have. A kitchen knife, the iron bar, and a bag of rock salt he grabbed from the garage. The car skids to a stop outside of the graveyard and Sam can see by the moonlight that this part of it is empty. It’s narrow, but it reaches far back from the road.  
  
Dean catches his eye, nods towards the back and lifts the iron bar. They stay low, splitting across the width of the cemetery and keeping each other’s pace. Halfway back, when the road is distant enough that Sam’s fairly certain he wouldn’t hear a passing car; he hears a choked noise and a woman’s voice. She sounds older, slightly hysterical, and coldly accusatory.  
  
“My baby brother. It is your fault he’s dead. He wanted so badly to believe in you, and he wouldn’t accept that his wife was a _dirty whore_.”  
  
They take the next step, and there’s the sister. She’s got a skull in her hands, beringed fingers stroking it almost lovingly as the fully formed ghost holds Morgan against a tree by her throat. Morgan’s face is pale, and it’s hard to make out distinct features in the milky light. Her eyes are two dark smudges set into her face though, and Sam can see the way her mouth gapes open as she tries to breathe.  
  
Sam’s on the side with the sister, and Dean’s closer to Morgan and the ghost. It couldn’t have worked out more perfectly if they had planned it. Which is why Sam immediately distrusts it.  
  
Dean’s face says he agrees, but he counts down from three with his fingers before they break cover and lunge towards the tableau in front of them. Sam swings the knife, and misses his goal of the woman’s arm instead knocking against the skull, the sound of metal skittering along bone loud in the graveyard. Dean’s a little luckier, and when he swings the bar it temporarily scatters the ghost’s essence even as his brother catches the author and holds her up.  
  
Dahlia’s hands fly upwards, and she thrusts the skull at Sam angrily. He’s flying backwards before he has a chance to do anything about it, breath driven out of him by the hard granite headstone that hits him in the back. Dahlia lets out a wordless scream of rage and points the skull at Dean. His brother’s hands drop off of Morgan as he goes flying and hits the tree at a wickedly diagonal angle before slamming into the ground. Sam fights to breathe even as he uses the tombstone to push himself up.  
  
“You two. You thought you could come to _my_ world and stop justice? You are mistaken.” In the moonlight the deep twist of Dahlia’s scowl and the burning hatred in her eyes are hideously highlighted.  
  
Sam can hear Dean stirring, the rough gasps of Morgan on the ground a few feet from him, and the sound of leaves rattling like dry bones across the stones around him. He closes his eyes and tries to get control, to remember how to move his arms and draw deep lungfuls of oxygen. Feet crunch towards him, and Sam shifts his grip on the knife and waits. Takes his time with it. Then, when she’s standing over him and chuckling Sam shifts his grip on the knife and drives it through her ankle. There’s a burst of blood, a hideous wail, and the skull clatters to the ground beside his head. He’s staring into the dead murderer’s hollow eye sockets, and without Dahlia’s power pushing him the ghost flickers in and out of existence from his spot near where Dean has fallen.  
  
Dahlia’s screams ring out over the ground, but Sam is already grabbing the skull from the ground and rolling onto his side even as he shouts, “Dean catch!”  
  
It should be a long shot, shouldn’t work at all, but there’s a reason Sam loves his brother. When the pressure is on Dean never lets him down. The skull arcs, rolls in the air, and then Dean’s hand shoots over the top of a gravestone and catches the skull neatly.  
  
The arm disappears and Dahlia tries to limp towards it. Her progress is seriously halted when Sam grabs her ankle and pulls, and then he’s lifting himself up with the help of the headstone he hit and stomping brutally on the ankle he put the knife through. Now her screams are muffled by the ground beneath her face, and Sam stagger-steps ahead and reaches for Morgan even as Dahlia scrambles to grab at his pants. She can’t get a hold though, and Sam has a destination.   
  
Morgan’s still gasping, fingers digging in the dirt, and Sam can see now how glazed her eyes still are, and how slack her mouth is around her desperate attempts for air. He sweeps her up, and then heads for Dean. His brother is almost to the car when it hits him, and he shouts ahead, “Dean! Gas?”  
  
Small fingers tug at his shirt, and Sam finds a way to bend down towards her mouth even as he lopes with an awkward gait over the ground. “Li-lighter-fluid.”  
  
Gas was the least of their worries, the _actors_ don’t carry lighters, but Morgan has a Zippo. Sam shifts her carefully and finds her pockets before digging in them. The lighter drops into his hands, and he’s already flipping it open and deconstructing it as he finally reaches Dean. His brother holds the skull out, and Sam pulls the cartridge free and squeezes the cotton. They need enough to get the skull burning, and he can see the salt granules Dean has already poured, but there has to be some leftover for the lighter to work.  
  
Vigelli is still flickering, following them with his mouth open in a soundless wail, and Dahlia’s stumbling steps are crashing closer as she screams vehement hate at them. Sam passes the lighter off to Dean and he drops the skull onto the ground and then reconstructs the lighter before striking the wheel once, twice, and then Sam’s breath whooshes out when the wick catches and the skull starts to burn merrily. The ghost blows into pieces and light, and Dahlia’s scream is unearthly and terrifying.   
  
\----  
  
It’s bizarre to be standing in a cemetery and having a civil conversation with a police officer. Morgan’s on the back of the ambulance, the EMT flashing the light in her eyes and checking over her throat. Dahlia has already been carted off, screaming the whole way, and Sam shifts carefully and rubs at his lower back while Dean keeps shooting him glances Sam can read all too well.  
  
“So Ms. Luludi took Morgan out here to kill her because of a vendetta about Ray?” The sheriff looks over at Morgan for a moment and then shakes his head. “Other than you two I’d say that girl doesn’t have any kind of luck but bad.”  
  
Sam manages a careful smile. “Well we try. Is that all you needed?”  
  
The sheriff slips his notebook away and holds out a hand that Sam is glad to shake. This may be weird, but it’s a good kind of weird. “Obviously I’ll need you boys to come in tomorrow and give a statement at the office. Plus testimony when it goes to trial, but that’ll be a while. In the meantime, will you look after her? I knew her mom really well. Breaks my heart to see her so shaken up.”  
  
“We’ll take care of her.” The sheriff gives Dean a knowing look, and then goes back to where his officers are taking pictures of the crime scene.   
  
\----  
  
After Morgan is cleared to go home, with more painkillers in her system than before, Sam rides in the back again and feels the almost insubstantial weight of her snoring into his side. She wakes up when they get to the house, and blearily tries to help when Sam lifts her out of the backseat and carries her towards the house.  
  
He pours her a glass of water and watches as she sips at it slowly and stares at them. When it’s done she rasps out a low whisper. “I know we got off to a rough start with the bat and all, but thank you guys. So much. You saved my life and my sanity, and- _thank you_.” Her eyes are full of tears, and Sam submits himself to another hug. When he steps back she rubs at her face sleepily before swallowing delicately. “Will you still be here when I wake up?”  
  
“I don’t think so Morgan. I’m pretty sure we’ve done what we were summoned for.”  
  
“But you’ll be ok. You’ve got Jensen and Jared, and they obviously care about you a whole lot. You’re gonna be just fine sweetheart.”  
  
She nods once and then gestures for Dean. His brother leans in close, and Morgan whispers something in his ear that Sam can’t hear. From this angle Dean’s face is hidden, but the line in his brother’s shoulders suggests that whatever he’s hearing he doesn’t particularly care for it. When Dean pulls back she points an admonishing finger and gives a weak and crooked grin. “Remember that ok?”  
  
“Yes ma’am.”  
  
Sam puts her to bed, and then looks around the wreckage of the kitchen before digging in the cabinet with the trashcan for the broom and dustpan. He finds everything he needs and starts sweeping up even as Dean studies him from across the kitchen.  
  
“You did really good today Sammy. Figured it all out just in time.”  
  
He doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the expression that goes with that heavy tone. “Thank you Dean.” It’s so formal, and he hates it. Hates everything. The glass crashes into the trashcan and then Sam puts everything back and stretches out his sore back. “Let’s go to bed.”  
  
And they do. When they wake up in the motel room in Louisiana Sam isn’t sure if he’s relieved or sorry. He just tries not to think about it.

 

\---

 

They finish off the troll with minor injuries and one more fight. Dean still thinks that a direct slam into the beast is the best option, and that nets him a concussion and a bruised rib. Sam’s plan to use fables to their advantage only works slightly better, and while he’s checking Dean’s mental faculties his brother is trying to bandage a deep gash in Sam’s side.   
  
Louisiana rolls away behind them, and they do two more hunts in Arizona and Montana before Sam breaks somewhere over the Missouri border. He tries not to. Tries to hold it in and stay sane, but Dean is getting tighter and more distant as time rolls on. The simple synchronicity they had in the cemetery in the other world is gone, and it’s resulting in the two of them getting hurt more than they should be. Sam’s nursing a broken thumb at the moment, and he kind of wants to hit Dean. He doesn’t though, because he’s an awesome and understanding man. Instead he waits until they’re eating pizza in front of a _Dr. Sexy M.D._ rerun to break the ice.  
  
“What did she say to you?”  
  
“Who? The pizza delivery girl? ‘Thanks for the tip dude.’ I think she was high.” His brother takes a big bite of his slice and narrows his eyes at the TV. “Do you think Dr. Sexy ever questions his life choices?”  
  
Sam bites his lip hard and then takes a deep breath. “I would if I was him. How often does he get slapped, and yet he still hangs around these women? That would drive any man mad. Hell, I almost lost it when it happened the second time to me, and he gets it five or six times an episode. I mean really Dean, how many times is a man expected to get hit in the face?”  
  
“I get hit in the face all the time Sam, and I’m perfectly sane.”  
  
“That’s up for debate.”  
  
Dean’s eyebrow arches upwards before he rubs it with greasy fingertips. “Oh? You gonna make a case for me being crazy? Well let’s hear it Counselor.”  
  
For a moment Sam remembers when Dean had Yellow Fever, and how insistent he was that Sam understand just how out of touch they were for putting themselves into danger. Once upon a time Sam would have agreed with his brother, would have nodded in a consolatory manner and simply enjoyed hearing Dean say the very thing he was always thinking. That was a different time though, and a different Sam. That was a Sam that thought running away from the only thing that had ever meant anything to him was a good idea. That was a Sam that didn’t know just how deep in his system Dean was, how non-biological that call actually was. Sure, genetically speaking Dean was in his blood, but in a totally flowery and romantic way _Dean was in his blood_.  
  
How many nights had he lain awake simply staring at the ceiling of his crappy dorm room and wondering why he was aching? How many times had he looked over in the bed and seen Jess lying there, sleeping with those long lashes drifting over her cheeks and her plush lips slightly parted, and wondered why it seemed so familiar and simple? How long did it take him to understand what was happening and why?  
  
“Ok, state’s evidence exhibit A; Dean Winchester has a habit of putting himself into danger on a regular basis without any consideration for his own health. He does this in the interest of taking care of strangers, but also to save his little brother pain and anguish.”  
  
Dean stuffs the entire crust into his mouth and grumbles around it. “That makes me a good hunter and a good brother Sam. Not crazy.”  
  
“State’s evidence exhibit B; Dean Winchester sleeps with anything with two legs and an attractive face. Risking any number of angry significant others and STDs he continues this reckless behavior with no biological imperative to procreate.”  
  
For a second Sam is afraid Dean will choke to death on the crust when he starts laughing, but then his brother gets control of himself and looks over. His eyes sparkle merrily, and the lines at the corners of them are cut deep and vivid. When the laughter is controlled Dean points a finger at him. “Objection. That makes Dean Winchester a healthy, red-blooded, American male instead of a prude.”  
  
Sam hates when Dean calls him a prude. Thinks of the way he moaned like a whore when Dean was buried balls-deep in him, and how Dean kept saying, _so sexy Sammy, so hot for me baby_ , but he doesn’t bring that up to counter Dean’s objection. It would kill the surprise attack he’s planning.   
  
“The prosecution will withhold its opinion on that until closing statements.” Dean’s eyes twinkle a little more, and damn if Sam can’t help but smile in response. “State’s evidence exhibit C; Dean Winchester is capable of knowing and seeing reason, and yet deludes himself into believing in false conclusions contrary to all logical evidence.”  
  
Dean points a finger with the hand that’s holding his beer and there’s a dangerous glint building in his eye. “Explain.”  
  
“For example, all evidence points to _Dr. Sexy M.D._ being a piece of pointless fluffy drama created for women, and while Mr. Winchester must be fully aware of this he watches the show continuously. He insists that it is for the plot, and _spankable material_ , but his eyes tear up at the emotionally exploitative moments and he never masturbates after the show is over.”  
  
“Sammy how would you-I definitely masturbate. I masturbate regularly. I refer back to the American male argument.”  
  
“Dean, we’re stuck in tiny motel rooms with paper thin walls. I can hear you, _all the time_ , and I’m telling you there’s never been a single episode of this show that ended with you masturbating.”  
  
“Well I-Jesus Sam I give it time. I mean I use it when it’s necessary. That’s why it gets stored away, _for later use_.”  
  
“Ok. Then tell me, what was the best moment of the show? Ever?”  
  
His brother gives him a disgusted look, and his mouth starts moving long before his brain catches up. Sam _loves_ these moments. “When Dr. Ellen Piccolo, the sexy yet earnest doctor, told Dr. Wang that she wouldn’t let her operate on a young boy just to prove a point. By saving the young boy’s life she saved Dr. Sexy, who was spiraling into despair because of the boy’s illness and-then they got naked.” Dean guzzles his beer and glares at the smile splitting Sam’s face. “Then lesbians.”  
  
“I’ve been watching this show on and off with you for years Dean. There were no lesbians in that episode.”  
  
“How would you know?” It’s almost a growl, but Sam can see Dean’s defenses fall down as his brother relaxes back into the headboard. “Anyway, you cried during _Legends of the Fall_.”  
  
Sam was willing to play along for a moment. “Yeah. Everybody cried during that movie Dean. That move is designed by the universe to break people.”  
  
Dean nods and then tilts his head and grins broadly. “So all your evidence is proving is that I’m an emotionally and sexually healthy man. With good taste in television shows.”  
  
“No I’m sure that last point hasn’t come up. But you concede right? To all the evidence?”  
  
His brother sighs once before rolling his eyes. “Yeah Sammy, sure. I concede. You got a point, or you just talking to hear yourself talk?”  
  
“Alright, prosecution will make its closing statement. Dean Winchester structures his life around the ideals of pleasure and protection. He’d do anything to save his little brother pain, and kill anyone who hurt him-“  
  
“Damn straight.” Dean’s eyes are fiery, and Sam thinks his brother might be _just_ the right side of tipsy for this conversation.   
  
“-and is insistent to that point. Yet knowing all of that logically Mr. Winchester refuses to admit to himself or his brother that he’s in love with Sam. That he wants to be with Sam, sexually, emotionally, and fraternally. Instead Dean deludes himself into thinking that what’s best for Sam is-“  
  
Dean pushes up from the bed like a rocket and points a finger. “None of this! I thought we were over this! I thought you’d gotten your shit straight on this one!”  
  
“-to have his brother give in to what makes them both happy. They know for a fact that life is-“  
  
“Sam, please, I’m fucking begging you man. Stop. Please stop.”  
  
“-short and that they rarely ever get any happiness. It would take a mad man-“  
  
“I won’t listen to this. I’m fucking done Sam. You hear me? I’m done.”  
  
“-to deny them the one thing that makes them whole and happy. It would take a mad man to look the only person he loves in the whole damn world in the eye and destroy them in an effort to fit in with society’s rules. The prosecution rests.”  
  
And Dean leaves.  
  
  
\----  
So maybe it’s childish.   
  
No, _definitely_ childish, but Sam waits until six in the morning and then he collects his bag and heads out the motel room door. It takes fifteen minutes to walk to the nearest grocery store, and he watches the employees file in and start the process of opening the place. Once he’s sure they’re in business he picks a Honda and hotwires it.   
  
He doesn’t really have anywhere to go, but he leaves and heads out anyway. Anywhere is better than here. Sam’s done the best he can, has put up with all of it, but this is a step too far. Sure, someday in the near future he’ll break down and go back. They’ll have a stilted conversation that does everything but apologies and understandings, and go back to this half-life Dean has condemned them to. Sam will smile and put up with it, Dean will bury it deep, and that will be the end of it.   
  
Except Sam’s not sure about that. He ends up in Northern Michigan, tending bar in a small town and renting a room upstairs. He gets to know the locals well, and he likes a good deal of them. The owner of the bar reminds him a lot of Bobby, and that’s bitterly sweet. The routine becomes a part of him, and Sam manages to find that soothing. He’s been there a little over a month when Patrick breaks protocol and asks a personal question. Sam’s wiping down the bar after a particularly quiet night when it happens.  
  
“So what are you running from?”  
  
His first reaction is to bristle, but he doesn’t. He holds it in, because Patrick has no way of knowing what’s going on in Sam’s head. No way of understanding how close to the core his question cuts.   
  
“What if I’m running towards something? Like the future, or a career in politics?”  
  
Patrick’s laugh is low and thick, and he stacks glasses and sends a sly look Sam’s way. “From Kaleva, Michigan? You’re shooting fairly low there boy.”  
  
“Small seeds and all that. We’re running low on Jack.”  
  
His boss nods thoughtfully and then puts the last glass up before turning off the neon sign behind the bar. “Is it a woman or a man?”  
  
“Patrick I’m not-“  
  
“Because if some jealous ex is going to show up in my bar and start trouble I want to be ready to know if I’m supposed to pull old Betsy out, or just call the law.”  
  
Sam thinks of Dean then, eyes dark and full of lust, pressing him against the wall. Lips begging entry even as his hands demanded it.   
  
“There won’t be anyone Patrick. Believe me. It doesn’t work that way.”  
  
“Man then.” Patrick writes down the Jack on the clipboard and then stows it under the register before wiping his hands off on a rag and hanging that up too. “Well, good to know I was right.”  
  
And that makes Sam wonder. It’s not that he and Dean haven’t had the assumption made about them more than once, but he’s never been able to really ask about it. Too busy arguing against the possibility of incest. “You guessed I was gay? Why did you guess that?”  
  
“You’re fastidious and clean.” Patrick’s eyes twinkle as he reaches for his jacket and zips it up. He grunts once at Sam’s expression and then shrugs expansively enough that Sam can see it under the weight of his parka. “I didn’t guess you were gay boy. I guessed there was a man. Big difference. Nellie wants you to come to dinner tomorrow. Don’t tell her no, or she’ll be up here during business hours with a home-cooked meal reminding my patrons how bad Remy’s chicken fingers are.”  
  
  
\----  
  
  
It’s rare that there’s an issue in Patrick’s bar. With a population below 500 it’s rare that the patrons don’t know each other, and removing that tension goes a long way toward lowering violent incidents. On the other hand, that means almost everybody has known the man or woman beside them since childhood. That sort of familiarity allows for older grudges, and when it’s as cold as tonight is that sort of thing tends to flare up.  
  
Sam knows from personal experience that a fight with long building personal tension, _with history_ , is the worst kind of fight. It’s the kind that ends on the ground, that gets bloody, and he’s had enough of them with Dean to know the signs are brewing in between two of the patrons. He tries to get Patrick’s attention, but the old man is fighting bronchitis and has been moving slowly and surely towards the backroom.   
  
So, he’s ready for it when it happens, but maybe not ready enough. Henry rears up first, slams his fist into Larry’s face, and then the fight is on. Sam’s tall, agile, and waiting for it, so jumping the bar and wading into the fight to break up the flying fists seems totally logical. What Sam’s not taking into account as he reaches for Henry’s arm is that Henry has _friends_. Sam may be well-liked by the majority of the patrons, but he’s still an outsider. A stranger.  
  
There aren’t many lessons Sam forgets. He gave up being anything other than an outsider to the majority of the world a long time ago, but something about the weekly dinners at Patrick’s house with his apple-faced wife and her delicious cooking, or the way Melanie pinches his cheek before over-tipping him, or maybe just all the smiles has eased his usual wariness and lulled him into a false sense of complacency. Whatever it is, Sam isn’t ready for Henry’s friend slamming his beer bottle into Sam’s skull.  
  
Hundreds of movies feature this moment, the bottle smashing into little pieces and the person getting hit either reeling or going down automatically. It’s not like that in real life. In real life beer bottles are made to be durable, to survive impact, and Sam’s skull takes the hit with a dull and meaty thunk. He’s thrown forwards, thighs crashing into the table and someone screaming in the distance. Or maybe that’s the ringing in his poor battered skull, Sam can’t quite tell, but everything goes fuzzy and indistinct. Big hands grab him, and then he’s being lowered into a chair as someone waves the others off.  
  
In the distance Sam thinks he can hear something meaty and rhythmic, like someone getting beaten, and maybe there’s arguing about that, or a high-pitched voice begging someone to stop. Sam’s not sure because his vision keeps doubling and tripling.   
  
He’s already in the local clinic when things get less hazy and the doc, a regular patron and someone Sam has served three draft beers to tonight, is shining a light in his eyes as he asks Sam pertinent questions. His vision still won’t clear totally, and there’s something dripping down the back of his neck that makes him uncomfortable. He hears Patrick clear as a bell. “Doc there’s a lot of blood.”  
  
“Head wounds bleed like that Patrick. Stop acting like an old lady.” The doctor’s weathered old hands tilt Sam’s face one way and then another before he steps behind Sam and begins to mess with what turns out to be Sam’s previously undiscovered lava storage bin. The burning that spreads out from the spot the doctor is prodding makes his vision go worse, and Sam doesn’t have time to warn them that he’s going to throw up. It becomes irrelevant when a trash bin is lifted in front of his face just in time, and Sam boots everything he’s eaten that day, and maybe the day before as well.  
  
“Good timing.” Patrick’s voice off to his right. If Patrick is there, and the doctor is melting into Sam’s brain, then who the hell is holding the bin?  
  
“He’s going to need to be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. Short naps are ok, but wake him constantly. You need to ask a few questions to make sure his brain is functioning normally, and if any of those symptoms we discussed come back you need to call me immediately. We don’t have a full hospital here, but there’s one nearby. Can you take care of him?”  
  
And then Sam’s world sways dangerously, because the voice that comes back is too familiar and powerful. “I always have before.”  
  
Patrick sounds odd, hesitant, and Sam tries to figure out which of the blurry shapes is the right blurry shape. “Sam didn’t exactly tell me about you. I’m not sure I’m comfortable leaving him with you.”  
  
“Sir, with all due respect, Sam and I have a long history together. I promise you taking care of him has been a priority of mine most of my life.”  
  
Sam can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes his throat and shakes all the burning pain loose again. The doctor curses lowly and then says, “Hold his head still. I have another couple stitches left to put in.”  
  
When it’s over, when they’re done manhandling his head and talking around him, the doctor gives him a shot that makes him float far away from the pain. Sam recognizes it as Morphine, and he’s a little surprised the doctor would do something so drastic. It seems like the first response would have been Tylenol. Sam’s not hurting, why would they give him something so strong?  
  
Rough, familiar hands lead him outside into the cold and then tuck him into the bench seat of the Impala. The engine, loud and comforting, rumbles to life and then magically transports them back to the bar. Sam is led up the stairs and lowered onto the couch Patrick had there when Sam moved in.   
  
Cold glass brushes his lips and Sam opens his mouth on reflex and takes long drinks of the water being offered to him. It’s the best water Sam has ever had. When it’s gone there’s a clunk and then he’s being lifted again and moved. His clothes are stripped off, and the drafty little apartment is too cold for that. He wants to complain, but then he’s led to the bed and settled down into blankets accentuated by the warm body wrapping around him. Sam almost argues, almost talks, but he finds that the silence is more soothing.  
  
Talking only leads to arguing, and arguing only leads to leaving. Sam can’t leave again. He’s out of places to go. The voice rumbles from somewhere in the vicinity of his neck, and Sam wonders what he’s done to the universe to make it so vindictive. His family history, the demon blood, being the vessel for Lucifer, and now this. There’s no escape, and it was supposed to wait until he gave in. He promised Patrick.   
  
“Stupid bastard thought the bottle would break.”  
  
If Sam could make his tongue work he’d tell Dean that he thought that too. How common the misconception is, and why everybody seems to think that when they can clunk their bottles on a table or drop them short distances and not have them shatter is beyond him. Plus, Sam is fairly certain Mythbusters did an episode, and doesn’t everybody watch Mythbusters?   
  
“Yeah Sammy. Lotta people watch those two dorks blow shit up. Good times.”  
  
Oh shit. He’s talking aloud, but he’s thinking. Or Dean’s gained telepathy since they split up. It’s the sort of thing Dean would do just to spite him. Did he think that or say it? Dean gives him no indication, only huffs behind him and disturbs the fine hairs on the back of his neck.   
  
“You’re gonna be pissed off when you’re back to yourself little brother. Doc had to shave some hair up there to see where the stitches needed to go. You look like one of them monks with the little spot. What was it for again?” Dean sounds almost sly, and Sam recognizes that his brother is checking his functions without making it obvious. As if Sam has any dignity left to preserve.   
  
“God touched. God touches. Spots for God’s finger.” That sounds…not right but close? Or is it just that his tongue is thick and tripping over itself as Sam tries to make it clear what he’s thinking and why. Dean huffs again and Sam swears lips brush over the base of his neck.   
  
“Fucker hit you hard Sammy. You’re damn lucky he had an awkward angle or that could have been worse. A lot worse. Didn’t anybody ever teach you to duck?”  
  
Yeah, Dean taught him to duck. Dean taught him everything. Dean taught him to move fast and low, Dean showed him how to be silent and swift, and Dean taught him to be vicious and decisive. His brother taught him how to read, and potty-trained him, and Dean taught Sam how to ties his shoes and make a grilled cheese sandwich. How to take a shot, and how to change oil in a car, and how to be in love. Dean taught him how to be loyal and honest, and how to make mistakes, and how to own up to them. Dean taught him everything. He’s gotta be talking aloud, because at the end of his thought process Dean takes a long and shaky breath before the arms around him tighten briefly.   
  
“Morgan was talking to me that first full day. Said she and her hubby used to watch the show, and every season you’d take off. Ray used to say, ‘Sam’s got sand in his clit again.’”  
  
If Sam wasn’t so relaxed, so warm and spaced out, he would take offense. He’d mention that Dean knows from personal experience that Sam doesn’t have a clit, and that most of those times Sam left because there seemed to be no other options. Sure, sometimes, maybe Sam could have stayed. Maybe he was being overdramatic, but Sam had lived a lifetime in a world where the tiniest thing could get you killed. Overdramatic seemed to be the way of things in the Winchester lifestyle.   
  
“I laughed when Morgan told me that, but she didn’t. So when we were putting her to bed that last night you know what she said to me?” Dean pauses but Sam doesn’t know if he’s supposed to guess or not. How should he know? They barely know the woman, and she lives in far away Never-Never land. She lives in a place where Sam and Dean Winchester only exist on TV, and any time things get too heavy or painful they can simply be paused or turned off. Morgan doesn’t understand what this is like, or how bad it feels to be so close to a thing you can’t have. So close to a thing that was given to you and then turned you away.   
  
“She said, ‘I used to laugh too, but then I watched. I watched closely, and realized that every time Sam walked away you pushed him there. One day Dean you’re going to push him, and Sam won’t come back. No one’s going to laugh then.’”  
  
Morgan was an incredible woman with insights beyond all reckoning. Morgan was goddess among women. Morgan was a _saint_.  
  
“I wouldn’t go that far Sammy, but she knew a little bit of what she was talking about. She knew for instance that the only thing that would make me stop for a second and take things in was the possibility that this really wasn’t something we could stop without breaking apart forever. I know what happened, and I know what I said, and I’m sorry Sam. I really am. I was an asshole, and you deserved better. You always deserve better. I’m willing to try to _be_ better but you gotta go slow with me sweetheart. You gotta understand it ain’t gonna come all at once, and I can’t just change my spots overnight. I’m gonna keep pushing, but you gotta stay this time. I can’t do this again. Can’t watch you walk away again without just breaking apart, so you go slow with me, and I promise you I’ll give you everything I can. You can answer tomorrow when you ain’t high as a kite.”  
  
Sam wants to answer now, wants to say yes, because _yes_. He knows though that Dean means it, and his head isn’t in a place where he’s good to make decisions. So he settles into Dean’s warm and strong embrace, and submits to Dean recounting every season of _Dr. Sexy M.D._ with the occasional questioning to test if Sam is awake and aware of where he is and who he is.   
  
But how could he forget? He’s in Dean’s arms, and he’s _Dean’s_ , and that’s not something you forget.  
  
  
\----  
  
When Sam wakes up from a mini-nap Dean is leaning against the headboard, eyes shot with red and heavily bagged, and knocking his knee with his fist none too gently. It’s an old trick Dean’s used since he was in school to keep himself awake, and Sam’s a little surprised to see it. Not as surprised as he is to realize that last night was not a concussion related hallucination. Dean is here, Dean came for him, and Dean gave in. Dean surrendered. Sam wants to get up and cheer, to dance, to do something properly celebratory, but when he shifts the headache sets in so vicious and thick that Sam is being led over the edge of the bed and dry-heaving into a tub Dean had ready for this very moment.  
  
Sam’s grateful.  
  
\-----  
  
At the end of the week the doctor checks him out and pronounces that Sam seems back to speed. The headaches have lessened, Sam can keep food down, and his vision is back to normal. He doesn’t press charges on Henry’s friend, and Henry assures them that in return when his friend gets out of the hospital bed Dean put him in he won’t press charges either. It’s good enough.  
  
Patrick is more than understanding about Dean staying until they can find a replacement for Sam. When Sam apologizes for leaving Patrick shakes his head and smiles warmly. “I expected you to be gone weeks ago boy. Saw that look in your eye and just knew you were temporary. Nellie’s gonna miss you like crazy, but as long as you remember to call every now and then it’ll be ok.”  
  
Dean sits in a booth most nights as Sam pours drinks and washes glasses. Every now and then his brother will haul supplies from the stockroom or join in a game of pool. Sam’s pleased when Dean doesn’t hustle the locals for money, but he’s more than a little amused at the way Dean openly flirts with him. It’s strange, it’s new, and Sam likes it a lot.  
  
No one knows them here. Not beyond Sam the drifter and Dean his boyfriend. They’re just people, members of the community temporarily, and Sam’s given a glimpse of a life they can have. Not permanently, not always, there are still people around that know them for who they really are and they’ll always have to be careful where those people are involved, but it’s something they can have in places like this. They can be Sam and Dean the couple instead of Sam and Dean the dysfunctional brothers. They can be _together_.   
  
On his last night as bartender Sam’s mixing a Flaming Dr. Pepper when Dean reaches out and casually brushes Sam’s hand. The lighter jerks once, and then he gets it under control and makes sure that the 151 is burning merrily before he slides it to Grace and watches her put out the flames and chug the mix. When he turns back Dean’s smiling at him, this weird little possessive quirk of his lips, and fingers reach out to tangle with Sam’s.  
  
They close up on time, the last stragglers singing some country song as they swagger out the door, and after all the lights are off and the doors are locked Sam reaches for Dean and his brother comes easily.  
  
There’s none of the last encounter in this. No crying, no begging, and no desperation. It’s a slow build, tongues tangling and hands moving lazily as Dean and Sam stumble their way up the narrow stairs and into Sam’s apartment. He’s glad Patrick took the night off, glad it’s just them, because he’s pretty sure if it hadn’t been Dean wouldn’t have been comfortable doing this. There’s something symbolic in the act of Dean taking him upstairs, leading him to the little bedroom and lowering him onto the lumpy mattress Sam has called his own for almost two months now.   
  
The first time this part was almost violent. Sam begging Dean to touch him, to admit he loved him, all while Dean ripped at Sam’s clothes and growled out words while marking him with his teeth. This time Dean undoes each button of Sam’s shirt one by one while he murmurs soft phrases along Sam’s skin. Simple platitudes about the way Sam moves, the grace of his fingers, how hot it’s been to watch him all night.   
  
When Dean is scraping teeth along Sam’s ribs he realizes his brother’s shirt is still on, and he struggles his way up to his elbows so that he can jerk on the collar and remind Dean that this is a two-way street and they both need to be naked.   
  
Dean doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight, just disconnects his mouth long enough to grab the shoulders of his shirt and pull it up and over his head. He comes out it looking ruffled, alive, and there’s a spark in his eyes that Sam wants to capture on film. Something to remember this by.   
  
Even that little reminder is enough to set Sam to shaking, how much Dean wanted it last time and what it did afterwards. Dean’s eyes darken, and he shakes his head once before his hands start to undo the buckle of his belt. “No. No Sam. Not this time.”  
  
Then he’s gripping Sam’s hands, kissing the wrists and the palms before he leads them up to grip the bars of the headboard. Sam holds on like he’s instructed to, obeys, and Dean uses his belt to secure Sam to the rusty metal bars. It’s not what Sam was expecting, not what he would have asked for, but there’s something about being held down and vulnerable under Dean’s hot gaze that sets him off.   
  
Bondage, for obvious reasons, has never been Sam’s thing. Then again, neither have men, but it seems that Sam has a _Dean_ thing, and everything works when it comes to his brother. He watches as Dean opens the fly of his jeans and then licks along his hipbone and over the v of his lower abdominals. The fingers of Dean’s left hand stray up, flick his nipple, tweak it once, and Sam moans in the back of his throat while his brother pulls the waistband down and exposes more flesh for his questing tongue.   
  
He has to break off the torture long enough to sit up and unlace Sam’s boots, pull them and the socks off, and then he goes back to slowly peeling Sam’s jeans down. He mouths over the cotton of Sam’s boxer briefs, down to Sam’s exposed thighs, and then slowly over his knees. Dean’s tongue nestles in the sensitive curve of Sam’s right knee, and he lets out an embarrassing keening noise. At least it should be embarrassing, but Dean’s body jerks like he just got hit with electricity and he presses the palm of his hand against his cock hard before looking up the length of Sam’s body and locking eyes with him. “Goddamn Sammy. Goddamn.”  
  
Dean keeps going, tongue and lips questing along Sam’s calves and down over his ankles, but there’s an urgency now that wasn’t there before. Exploration has given way to need, and Sam can’t complain about that. When the jeans are thrown across the room Dean gets up on his knees long enough to unzip and unbutton, and then shucks his own pants before his mouth returns to Sam’s legs. The tongue hits the same spot on his left knee and Sam makes that noise again. Dean’s response is a low growl and a gentle nip, before hot wet muscle is moving up the inside of his thigh.  
  
His boxer briefs get pulled off much less gently than his pants, and then Dean is nuzzling the crease where his thigh meets his hip, inhaling deeply, before his tongue ghosts along the side of Sam’s cock.   
  
It’s too hot, too sensual, and Sam has to close his eyes because if he keeps looking at the way Dean’s tongue peeks out of those pink lips, the long lashes framing smoldering green eyes, or the ridiculously agile fingers that have returned to his nipples Sam is going to finish way too soon. Instead he bites the inside of his cheek and holds still, resists the urge to thrust his hips up while Dean’s tongue taunts and teases along his shaft, the vein on the underside, and the flare of his cockhead. Dean tastes along his slit, tip of the tongue poking in briefly, and Sam can’t help the cry that escapes him or the way he moves underneath Dean. He grips the bars so hard he thinks he hears a creak, and then there’s the snick of a lube bottle and liquid dripping.   
  
If Sam notices that no wet fingers breach his entrance then his brain can’t keep the information front and center. Instead Dean’s mouth engulfs the head and starts up a steady suction while one hand disappears from Sam’s chest and doesn’t return. The other hand drifts down, palms Sam’s heavy balls, and then moves lower to stroke a thumb rhythmically over his perineum.   
  
Sam’s making that keening noise again, whole body straining upwards in a desperate attempt for more contact with Dean’s mouth, more friction, more _something_. Unfortunately it appears that Dean’s a cocktease, and Sam’s gonna return the goddamn favor as soon as he can-  
  
The mouth is gone, cold air breezing against his slick skin, and Sam’s just about the open his eyes when he feels Dean’s knees brush against his thighs. He’s not prepared, not stretched, but it doesn’t seem to matter because whatever Dean is doing the knees are on the _outside_ of Sam’s thighs. He opens his eyes then, and does so just in time to slam them shut again when Dean grips his dick and lines him up.  
  
Nothing, _nothing_ in the goddamn universe could prepare Sam for this moment. Dean’s eyes are open, and did Sam think he felt vulnerable? He understands why Dean secured him to the bed at the beginning. He gets it now. Dean’s eyes are wide, open, and they shine with love and fear. Tenderness. Dean winces once when the head of Sam’s cock brushes hard against his rim, and then Dean gets a better grip and bears down.   
  
Sam can’t help it. “Dean!” escapes him, and then he’s partially buried in the tight slick heat of his brother’s ass as Dean’s hand lands on his chest for balance. Dean’s breathing hard, eyes half shut, and Sam wants to say something more. Wants to be poetic, because this seems like a moment for poetics, but he’s got nothing. No words of love or kindness, just the aching, primal, urgent need to thrust upward and the dim civilized understanding that he _cannot_ do that under any circumstances.   
  
Dean circles his hips once, twice, tender little movements, and then the long lashes sweep downwards as Dean slides all the way home. Sam’s in deep, deeper than he thought he could go, and Dean’s so tight that it’s a little frightening. Did Dean prepare himself? Sam hopes to God Dean did, because he’s long past the point of being able to argue for Dean’s health.   
  
They stay like that for an eternity, Sam buried inside of Dean and his brother impaled on him and trembling. When Dean seems to have control, when his eyes have re-opened and still show Sam more than he’s ever seen before, Dean begins to move. At first it’s tiny, hesitant, but his brother gets bolder with every slow rise and fall.  
  
Eventually Dean is riding him, body twisting sinuously and tight channel flexing around Sam’s cock as Dean uses his thighs and the leverage on Sam’s chest to move. Then Dean leans forward for a kiss, Sam thrusts upwards, and he knows from the shocked cry that punches out of Dean that he’s hit his brother’s prostate. Dean stays leaning forward, lips pressed against Sam’s but not kissing as he moves again and again to chase that sensation.  
  
Sam can’t blame him, it’s a great moment, but he shifts his legs up and plants his feet against the bed so he can thrust in earnest. So he can show Dean how incredible this can be, and why they should do it every night for the rest of their damn lives. Dean’s bucking on his cock, mouth moving and breathing out Sam’s name with every thrust, and then Sam manages to get a glimpse of Dean’s rock-hard leaking erection trapped between them.   
  
That can’t happen, it won’t do, and Sam can feel his own orgasm building. Dean needs this, and Sam plans on helping. Except his damn hands are tied to the headboard, and Dean doesn’t seem interested in freeing Sam to get real friction on his cock. Brushing against Sam’s abs can’t be enough, and Sam fights against the belt before he begins to beg. “Dean, Dean please you gotta-untie-untie me Dean-I need-oh shit please-I need to _touch_ you.”  
  
“I got it Sam. I got it. S’all ok Sammy. Come for me baby. Come for me.”  
  
And Sam obeys.  
  
When the orgasm is done, when he’s lying there wrung out and Dean still hard and over him he watches as his brother slides off slowly, hesitantly, and then Dean is down between his thighs with the lube bottle again. Sam would protest but he doesn’t have any brain cells left. Dean stretches him open gently, reverently, kisses placed against his sweaty and shaking thighs. Then he’s lifting Sam’s legs into his arms and spreading Sam open before he slides into the hilt.   
  
It _burns_ , burns and stretches, and Sam’s exhausted cock gives an interested twitch and valiantly tries to rejoin the fun even as Sam groans and moans under Dean’s administrations. Dean’s moaning above him, thrusting deep, and then shortly afterwards filling Sam up before he collapses downwards. “Love you Sammy.”  
  
“Y’too.”  
  
When enough time has passed for Sam to get his breath and his brain back he twitches and then mouths along the shell of Dean’s ear. “Hey. Hey Dean my-you gotta untie me man. Shoulders.”  
  
Without looking up Dean reaches to Sam’s hands, unbuckles the belt, and then rolls off and out. They lay side by side, breathing heavily and covered in sweat, spit, and come until the cold air starts to affect them. Sam manages to manhandle Dean up and into the shower where they platonically wash each other before collapsing under the covers and passing out into what Sam will swear for the rest of his life is the best sleep anyone has ever had.  
  
Sam wakes the next morning to Dean sprawled out on the bed beside him, naked and eating a Bear Claw. Sam would complain about crumbs, but Dean got him one two, and he knows from personal experience that these are fresh and irresistible. Dean gestures once, and Sam gets the motion and opens his mouth.  
  
He really shouldn’t be surprised when Dean smashes the Bear Claw into his face. He really shouldn’t laugh. He does both anyway, because no matter what shittiness Dean has to dole out this morning his brother’s eyes are bright and there’s a smile on his face that Sam can’t remember ever seeing before. Something like pure joy. And Sam? Yeah he’ll do anything to keep it there. Fight anything, kill anything, give up anything to protect his brother’s fragile joy.  
  
It’s after his goodbye to Patrick, after Nellie presses a bag of food in his hands and kisses both his cheeks, that Sam finds himself in the passenger seat of the Impala watching the little time he spent away fade into the distance. Dean breaks the silence with the weirdest non sequitur Sam’s ever heard.  
  
“She was wrong about that too.”  
  
“Who was wrong about what too?” Sam almost doesn’t ask. Almost lets it slide.  
  
“Morgan. She said there’d be two more fights and then I’d be the bottom to apologize.”  
  
Sam squints against the bright sunlight reflecting off the snow and then looks over to see how big Dean is grinning. He hates to argue, but this is a point he can’t quite avoid. “Dean you did bottom to apologize.”  
  
“At first, but I’m man enough I topped from it. So technically, you bottomed twice last night.”  
  
He’d say something smart, he really would, but he’s too busy laughing so hard the window has to prop him up. Dean manages to look offended, but there’s still that light in his eyes, and Sam’s ok with that.  
  
Sam’s ok with all of it.


End file.
